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ANTHOLOGY  OF 
IRISH  VERSE 


ANTHOLOGY  OF 
IRISH  VERSE 

EDITED    WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION 
BY 

PADJIAIC    COLUM 


1^ 


BONI    AND    LIVERIGHT 
NEW    YORK  1922 


^/8 


Anthology  of  Irish  Verse 


Copyright,  ig22,  by 

BONI    &    LiVERIGHT,    InC. 


«^NGLrSH  1 


Printed  in  the  United  S*tates  of  America 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

For  their  generous  permission  to  use  poems  from  volumes 
published  in  this  country,  the  Editor  is  indebted  to : 
The  Macmillan  Co.,  for  poems  by  A.  E.,  James  Stephens, 

W.  B.  Yeats. 
Messrs.   Frederick   Stokes,    for  poems  by  Thomas   Kettle, 

Thomas    Mac    Donagh,    Padraic    Pearse    and    Joseph 

Plunkett. 
Messrs.  Brentano,  for  poems  by  Francis  Ledwidge. 
Messrs.    Henry   Holt    for    poems   by   Francis    Carlin   and 

Padraic  Colum. 
Messrs.  Funk  &  Wagnalls  for  poems  by  Ethna  Carbery. 
Mr.    Mitchell    Kennerley    for    poems    by    Dora    Sigerson 

Shorter. 
Mr.  B.  W.  Huebsch  for  poems  by  James  Joyce. 
Miss  Harriet  Monroe  for  "On  Waking,"  by  Joseph  Camp- 
bell,   "The    Apple    Tree"    by    Nancy    Campbell,    "The 

Counsels  of  O'Riordon,"  by  T.  D.  O'Bolger,  published 

in  "Poetry,"  Chicago. 
Mr.   Seumas   MacManus,   for  permission  to  use   "Lullaby" 

("Ballads  of  a  Country  Boy,"  Dublin,  M.  H.  Gill)  ; 
Miss  Eleanor  Cox; 
And  to  Mr.  Seumas  O'Sheel,  for  permission  to  use  "To  a 

Dead  Poet"  and  "He  Whom  a  Dream  Hath  Possessed." 


46G540 


TO  GEORGE  SIGERSON,  POET  AND  SCHOLAR 

Two  men  of  art,  they  say,  were  with  the  sons 
Of  Mile, — a  poet  and  a  harp  player, 
When  Mile,  having  taken  Ireland,  left 
The  land  to  his  sons'  rule;  the  poet  was 
Cir,  and  fair  Cendfind  was  the  harp  player. 

The  sons  of  Mile  for  the  kingship  fought — 
(Blithely,  with  merry  sounds,  the  old  poem  says) 
Eber  and  Eremon,  the  sons  of  Mile, 
And  when  division  of  the  land  was  made 
They  drew  a  lot  for  the  two  men  of  art. 

With  Eber  who  had  won  the  Northern  half 
The  Harper  Cendfind  went,  and  with  Eremon 
The  Northerner,  Cir  the  poet  stayed; 
And  so,  the  old  Book  of  the  Conquests  says. 
The  South  has  music  and  the  North  has  lore. 

To  you  who  are  both  of  the  North  and  South, 
To  you  who  have  the  music  and  the  lore. 
To  you  in  whom  Cir  and  Cendfind  are  met, 
To  you  I  bring  the  tale  of  poetry 
Left  by  the  sons  of  Eber  and  of  Eremon. 


A  leabhrdin,  gabh  antach  fd'n  saoghal. 
Is  do  gach  n-aon  da  mbuaileann  leat 
Aithris  cruinn  go  maireann  Gaedhil, 
T'reis  cleasa  claon  nan  Gall  ar  fad. 


VI 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction          3 

PART  ONE   (The  House,   the  Road,  the  Field,  the 
Fair  and  the  Fireside) 

A  Poem  To  Be  Said  on  Hearing  the  Birds  Sing     .     .  23 

The  Song  of  the  Old  Mother 23 

On  Waking 24 

A  Day  in  Ireland 26 

A  Drover 28 

The  Blind  Man  at  the  Fair 30 

Market  Women's  Cries 31 

John-John        33 

No  Miracle ,  35 

Let  Us  Be  Merry  Before  We  Go 37 

Had  I  A  Golden  Pound 38 

The  Coolun 39 

Have  You  Been  at  Carrick? 41 

The  Stars  Stani)  Up  in  the  Air 42 

Dear  Dark  Head 43 

Pearl  of  the  White  Breast 44 

Country  Sayings 45 

Cois  NA  Teineadh 46 

The  Ballad  of  Father  Gilligan 48 

Ballad  of  Douglas  Bridge 50 

The  White  Witch 52 

The  Spinning  Wheel 56 

Ringleted  Youth  of  My  Love 58 

Do  You  Remember  that  Night? 60 

The  Song  of  the  Ghost 62 

Lullaby        64 

I  Lie  Down  With  God 65 

PART  TWO     (Street  Songs  and  Countryside  Songs, 
Mainly  Anonymous) 

Johnny,  I  Hardly  Knew  Ye .  69 

Nell  Flaherty's  Drake 72 

Allalu  Mo  Wauleen 74 

The  Maid  of  the  Sweet  Brown  Knowe 77 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I  Know  My  Love 79 

The  Lambs  on  the  Green  Kills  Stood  Gazing  on  Me  .  81 

My  Love  Is  Like  the  Sun 83 

The  Nobleman's  Wedding 85 

Johnny's  the  Lad  I  Love 86 

I  Know  Where  Fm  Going 87 

The  Streams  of  Bunclody 88 

Lovely  Mary  Donnelly 89 

Draherin   O  Machree 91 

A  Complete  Account  of  the  Various  Colonizations  .  93 

The  Boyne  Water 95 

The  Shan  Van  Vocht 98 

The  Wearin'  o'  the  Green 100 

The  Rising  of  the  Moon 101 

The  Croppy  Boy 103 

By  Memory  Inspired 105 

PART  THREE     (The  Celtic  World  and  the  Realm 
OF  Faery) 

Aimirgin's  Invocation 109 

St.  Patrick's  Breastplate 110 

In  Praise  of  May 112 

The  Sleep-Song  of  Grainxe  Over  Dermuid      ....  114 

The  Awakening  of  Dermuid 116 

The  Lay  of  Prince  Marvan 118 

The  Counsels  of  O'Riordan,  the  Rann  Maker     .     .  122 

My  Love,  Oh,  She  Is  My  Love 123 

At  the  Yellow  Bohereen 125 

The  Woman  of  Beare 126 

Cuchullain's  Lament  Over  Fardiad 129 

King  Cahal  M6r  of  the  Wine-Red  Hand    ....  130 

KiNCORA         132 

The  Grave  of  Rury 134 

The  Shadow  House  of  Lugh 135 

The  King's  Son 137 

The  Fairy  Host 138 

The  Fairy  Thorn 139 

The  Fairy  Lover 142 

The  Warnings 143 

The  Love-Talker 144 

The  Green  Hunters 146 

The  Others 147 

The  Shadow  People 149 

The  Fairies 150 


CONTENTS  ix 
PART  FOUR     (Poems  of  Place  and  Poems  of  Exile) 

PAGE 

The  Triad  of  Things  Not  Decreed 155 

The  Starling  Lake 156 

BoGAC   Ban        157 

Killarney 159 

The  Hills  of  Cualann  . 161 

Ardan  M6r 163 

Clonmacnoise        163 

The  Little  Waves  of  Breffny 164 

MucKiSH  Mountain 165 

The  Bog  Lands 166 

The  Bells  of  Shandon 168 

Colum-Cille's  Farewell  to  Ireland 170 

John  O'Dwyer  of  the  Glen 171 

A  Farewell  to  Patrick  Sarsfield 173 

Fontenoy.    1745 176 

In  Spain 179 

In  Spain:  Drinking  Song 180 

The  Battle  Eve  of  the  Irish  Brigade 181 

The  Fair  Hills  of  Ireland 182 

The  Winding  Banks  of  Erne 184 

corrymeela 188 

The  Irish  Peasant  Girl 190 

The  County  of  Mayo 192 

PART  FIVE     (Satires  and  Laments) 

On  Himself 195 

On  An  Ill-Managed  House 196 

On  the  World 197 

Righteous  Anger         198 

The  Petition  of  Tom  Dermody 199 

The  Peeler  and  the  Goat 201 

The  Night  Before  Larry  Was  Stretched     ....  204 

Bruadar  and  Smith  and  Glinn 207 

The  Bard  on  the  Bodach 211 

A  Curse  on  a  Closed  Gate 212 

O'Hussey's  Ode  to  the  Maguire 213 

A  Lament  for  the  Princes  of  Tyrone  and  Tyrconnel  216 

Lament  for  the  Death  of  Eoghan  Ruadh  O'Neill  .  223 

Dirge  on  the  Death  of  Art  O'Leary 225 

The  Lament  for  O'Sullivan  Beare 233 

A  CoNNACHT  Caoine 236 

The  Convict  of  Clonmala 237 


X  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  Woman  of  the  Mountain 239 

Aghadoe 240 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 242 

Lament  for  Thomas  Davis 244 

Parnell        247 

Synge's  Grave 249 

To  A  Dead  Poet 251 

The  Dead  Aviator 252 

Lament  for  Sean  MacDermott 254 

Lament  for  Thomas  MacDonagh 255 

Lament  for  the  Poets:    1916 256 

How  Oft  Has  the  Banshee  Cried 257 

PART  SIX     (Our  Heritage) 

The  Downfall  of  the  Gael 261 

Lament  for  Banba 264 

Tara  Is  Grass 266 

Kathleen-Ni-Houlahan           267 

Dark  Rosaleen 269 

RoisiN   DuBH          272 

The  Dark  Palace 273 

After  Death         275 

Ways  of  War 277 

This  Heritage  to  the  Race  of  Kings 278 

The  Irish  Rapparees 279 

The  Memory  of  the  Dead 281 

Thro'  Grief  and  Thro'  Danger 283 

The  Irish  Mother  in  the  Penal  Days 284 

A  Song  of  Freedom 285 

Terence  MacSwiney 286 

The  Three  Woes 287 

PART  SEVEN     (Personal  Poems) 

I  Am  Raferty 291 

At  the  Mid-Hour  of  Night 292 

Night 293 

Nepenthe 294 

Eileen   Aroon        295 

And  Then  No  More 297 

Maire  My  Girl 298 

Helas!          300 

In  the  Streets  of  Catania 301 

The  Doves 302 


CONTENTS  XI 

PAGE 

Sheep  and  Lambs 304 

The  Pity  of  Love 305 

The  Folly  of  Being  Comforted 306 

Think 307 

Immortality 308 

A  Farewell 309 

To   MORFYDD 310 

Love  on  the  Mountain 311 

Acceptation 312 

Mad  Song         313 

The  Wings  of  Love 314 

On  a  Poet  Patriot 316 

Wishes  for  My  Son 317 

Greeting 319 

The  Sedges 320 

The  Half  Door 321 

This  Heart  That  Flutters 322 

I  Hear  an  Army 323 

To  Death 324 

Ideal        325 

River-Mates 326 

The  Betrayal 327 

The  Daisies 328 

The  Goat  Paths 329 

The  Spark 331 

A  Silent  Mouth 333 

He  Whom  a  Dream  Hath  Possessed 334 

The  Wind  Bloweth  Where  It  Listeth 335 

The  Apple  Tree 336 

SLAINTHEI 

Slainthe!          339 

Notes ..343 

Index  of  Authors 355 

Index  of  First  Lines     ....     .     .     .     ....  357 


f-^ 


-^ 


INTRODUCTION 


I  should  like  to  call  this  an  Anthology  of  the  Poetry  of 
Ireland  rather  than  an  Anthology  of  Irish  Verse.  It  is  a 
distinction  that  has  some  little  difference.  It  implies,  I  think, 
that  my  effort  has  been  to  take  the  poetry  of  the  people  in 
the  mass,  and  then  to  make  a  selection  that  would  be  rep- 
resentative of  the  people  rather  than  representative  of  in- 
dividual poets.  The  usual,  and  perhaps  the  better,  way  to 
make  an  anthology  is  to  select  poems  and  group  them  ac- 
cording to  chronological  order,  or  according  to  an  order  that 
has  a  correspondence  in  the  emotional  life  of  the  reader.  The 
first  is  the  method  of  the  Oxford  Book  of  English  Verse,  and 
the  second  is  the  method  of  the  Golden  Treasury  of  Songs  and 
Lyrics.  In  this  collection, — the  last  section,-— there  is  an  an- 
thology of  personal  poems  that  is  in  chronological  order ;  and 
there  is  an  anthology  of  anonymous  poems — the  second  sec- 
tion— that  is  arranged  according  to  an  order  that  is  in  the 
editor's  own  mind.  But  the  other  sections  of  the  anthology 
are  not  chronological  and  are  not  according  to  any  mental 
order — they  represent  a  grouping  according  to  dominant  na- 
tional themes. 

This  method  of  presentation  has  been  forced  upon  me  by 
the  necessity  of  arranging  the  material  in  the  least  prosaic 
way.  It  would  not  do,  I  considered,  to  arrange  the  poetry  of 
Ireland  according  to  chronological  order.  Irish  poetry  in 
English  is  too  recent  to  permit  of  a  number  of  initial  excel- 
lencies.    Then  the  racial  distinction  of  Irish  poetry  in  Eng- 


lish — in'/^^ifVD^lpsh'poeify-^-^^  ncjt  an  immediate  achieve- 
ment, and  sb  the  pbetry  that  would  be  arranged  chronologi- 
cally would  begin  without  the  note  of  racial  distinctiveness. 
And  because  so  much  of  Irish  poetry  comes  out  of  historical 
situation,  because  so  much  of  it  is  based  on  national  themes, 
the  order  that  has  a  correspondence  in  personal  emotion, 
would  not  be  proper  to  it.  The  note  that  I  would  have  it 
begin  on,  and  the  note  that  I  would  have  recur  through  the 
anthology  is  the  note  of  racial  distinctiveness. 


II 

Ireland  is  a  country  that  has  two  literatures — one  a  littsra- 
ture  in  Irish — Gaelic  literature — that  has  been  cultivated  con- 
tinuously since  the  eighth  century,  and  the  other  a  literature 
in  English — Anglo-Irish  literature — that  took  its  rise  in  the 
eighteenth  century, 

Anglo-Irish  literature  begins,  as  an  English  critic  has  ob- 
served, with  Goldsmith  and  Sheridan  humming  some  urban 
song  as  they  stroll  down  an  English  laneway.  That  is,  it  be- 
gins chronologically  in  that  way.  At  the  time  when  Gold- 
smith and  Sheridan  might  be  supposed  to  be  strolling  down 
English  laneways,  Ireland,  for  all  but  a  fraction  of  the  peo- 
ple, was  a  Gaelic-speaking  country  with  a  poetry  that  had 
many  centuries  of  cultivation.  Afterwards  English  speech 
began  to  make  its  way  through  the  country,  and  an  English- 
speaking  audience  became  important  for  Ireland.  And  then, 
at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  came  Thomas  Moore,  a 
singer  who  knew  little  of  the  depth  or  intensity  of  the  Gaelic 
consciousness,  but  who,  through  a  fortunate  association,  was 
able  to  get  into  his  songs  a  racial  distinctiveness. 

He  was  born  in  Dublin,  the  English-speaking  capital,  at  a 
time  when  the  Gaelic-speaking  South  of  Ireland  had  still 
bards  with  academic  training  and  tradition — the  poets  of 
Munster  who  were  to  write  the  last  chapter  of  the  unbroken 
literary  history  of  Ireland.  From  the  poets  with  the  tradi- 
tion, from  the  scholars  bred  in  the  native  schools,  Moore  was 
not  able  to  receive  anything.    But  from  those  who  conserved 


another  part  of  the  national  heritage,  he  was  able  to  receive 
a  great  deal. 

At  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  the  harpers  who  had 
been  wandering  through  the  country,  playing  the  beautiful 
traditional  music,  were  gathered  together  in  Belfast.  The 
Aiusic  that  they  were  the  custodians  of  was  noted  down  and 
published  by  Bunting  and  by  Power.  With  such  collections 
before  them  the  Irish  who  had  been  educated  in  English  ways 
and  English  thought  were  made  to  realize  that  they  had  a 
national  heritage. 

Thomas  Moore,  a  born  song-writer,  began  to  write  Eng- 
lish words  to  this  music.  Again  and  again  the  distinctive 
rhythms  of  the  music  forced  a  distinctive  rhythm  upon  his 
verse.  Through  using  the  mould  of  the  music,  Moore,  with- 
out being  conscious  of  what  he  was  doing,  reproduced  again 
and  again  the  rhythm,  and  sometimes  the  structure  of  Gaelic 
verse.  When  Edgar  Allen  Poe  read  that  lyric  of  Moore's 
that  begins  "At  the  mid-hour  of  night,"  he  perceived  a  dis- 
tinctive metrical  achievement.  The  poem  was  written  to  an 
ancient  Irish  air,  and  its  rhythm,  like  the  rh3rthm  of  the  song 
that  begins  "Through  grief  and  through  danger,"  wavering 
and  unemphatic,  is  distinctively  Irish.  And  Moore  not  only 
reproduced  the  rhythm  of  Gaelic  poetry,  but  sometimes  he 
reproduced  even  its  metrical  structure. 

Silent,  O  Moyle,  be  the  roar  of  thy  water; 
Break  not,  ye  breezes,  your  chain  of  repose, 
While  murmuring  mournfully,  Lir's  lonely  daughter 
Tells  to  the  night  star  her  tale  of  woes. 

Here  is  the  Gaelic  structure  with  the  correspondences  all  on 
a  single  vowel — in  this  case  the  vowel  "o" — "Moyle,"  "roar," 
"repose,"  "lonely,"  "woes,"  with  the  alliterations  "break," 
•freezes,"  "tells,"  "tale,"  "murmuring,"  "mournfully."  And 
so,  through  the  association  that  he  made  with  music,  Thomas 
Moore  attained  to  distinctiveness  in  certain  of  his  poems.* 

♦Robert  Burns  also  re-created  an  Irish  form  by  writing  to 
Irish  music  in  "Their  Groves  o'  Sweet  Myrtle."  The  soldier's 
song  in  "The  Jolly  Beggars"  reproduces  an  Irish  form  also ; 
the  air  that  Burns  wrote  this  song  to  may  have  been  an  Irish 
air  originally. 


Back  in  1760  MacPherson*s  "Fragments  of  Ancient  Poetry 
Collected  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland"  was  published.  That 
medley,  unreadable  by  us  to-day,  affected  the  literatures  of 
England,  France,  Germany  and  Italy.  In  the  British  Islands 
eager  search  was  made  for  the  Gaelic  originals.  There  were 
no  originals.  MacPherson's  compositions  which  he  attributed 
to  the  Gaelic  bard  Ossian  were,  in  every  sense  of  the  word, 
original.  And  yet,  as  the  historian  of  Scottish  Gaelic  litera- 
ture. Dr.  Magnus  MacLean,  has  said,  the  arrival  of  James 
MacPherson  marked  a  great  moment  in  the  history  of  all 
Celtic  literatures.  "It  would  seem  as  if  he  sounded  the  trum- 
pet, and  the  graves  of  ancient  manuscripts  were  opened,  the 
books  were  read,  and  the  dead  were  judged  out  of  the  things 
that  were  written  in  them."  Those  who  knew  anything  of 
Gaelic  literary  tradition  could  not  fail  to  respond  to  the  uni- 
versal curiosity  aroused  by  the  publication  of  MacPherson's 
compositions.  In  Ireland  there  was  a  response  in  the  publi- 
cation of  a  fragment  of  the  ancient  poetry  and  romance. 
"The  words  of  this  song  were  suggested  by  a  very  ancient 
Irish  story  called  *Deirdri,  or  the  lamentable  fate  of  the  Sons 
of  Usneach'  which  has  been  translated  literally  from  the 
Gaelic  by  Mr.  O'Flanagan,  and  upon  which  it  appears  that 
the  *Darthula'  of  MacPherson  is  founded,"  Thomas  Moore 
wrote  in  a  note  to  the  song  "Avenging  and  Bright."  Slowly 
fragments  of  this  ancient  literature  were  revealed  and  were 
taken  as  material  for  the  new  Irish  poetry.* 

After  Moore  there  came  another  poet  who  reached  a  dis- 
tinctive metrical  achievement  through  his  study  of  the  music 

♦The  Ossian  of  MacPherson  (in  Ireland  Oisin,  pronounced 
Usheen)  was  supposed  to  be  the  poet  who  had  celebrated  the 
lives  and  actions  of  the  heroic  companionship  known  as  the 
Fianna.  The  Irish  term  for  this  class  of  poetry  is  "Fianaid- 
heacht,"  and  an  example  of  it  is  given  in  this  antholqgy  in 
"Grainne*s  sleep-song  over  Dermuid."  At  the  time  when 
"Ossian"  was  making  appeal  to  Goethe  and  Napoleon  the 
great  mass  of  the  poetry  that  was  the  canon  of  MacPherson's 
apochrypha  was  lying  unnoted  in  the  University  of  Louvain, 
brought  over  there  by  Irish  students  and  scholars.  Recently 
this  poetry  has  been  published  by  the  Irish  Texts  Society 
(Dunaire  Finn,  the  Poem  Book  of  Finn,  edited  and  trans- 
lated by  Eoin  MacNeill). 


that  Bunting  had  published.  This  poet  was  Samuel  Fergu- 
son. He  took  the  trouble  to  learn  Gaelic,  and  when  he  trans- 
lated the  words  of  Irish  folk-songs  to  the  music  that  they 
were  sung  to,  he  created,  in  half  a  dozen  instances,  poems 
that  have  a  racial  distinctiveness.  Ferguson  had  what  Moore 
had  not — the  ability  to  convey  the  Gaelic  spirit.  Take  his 
"Cashel  of  Munster": 

rd  wed  you  without  herds,  without  money  or  rich  array, 
And  rd  wed  you  on  a  dewy  morn  at  day-dawn  grey ; 
My  bitter  word  it  is,  love,  that  we  are  not  far  away 
In  Cashel  town,  though  the  bare  deal  board  were  our  mar- 
riage bed  this  day. 

Here  is  the  wavering  rhythm,  the  unemphatic  word-arrange- 
ment, that  is  characteristic  of  Irish  song  and  some  racial 
character  besides.  Callanan,  too,  gets  the  same  effects  in  his 
translation  of  "The  Outlaw  of  Loch  Lene": 

O  many's  the  day  I  made  good  ale  in  the  glen, 

That  came  not  from  stream  nor  from  malt  like  the  brewing 

of  men; 
My  bed  was  the  ground,  my  roof  the  green  wood  above. 
And  all  the  wealth  that  I  sought,  one  fair  kind  glance  from 

my  love. 

Ferguson's  translation  of  *'Cean  Dubh  Dilis,*'  "Dear  Dark 
Head,"  makes  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  Irish  love  songs; 
it  is  a  poem  that  carries  into  English  the  Gaelic  music  and  the 
Gaelic  feeling;  the  translation,  moreover,  is  more  of  a  poem 
than  is  the  original. 

Sir  Samuel  Ferguson  was  the  first  Irish  poet  to  attempt  a 
re-telling  of  any  of  the  ancient  sagas.  He  aimed  at  doing 
for  "The  Tain  Bo  Cuiligne,"  the  Irish  epic  cycle,  what  Tenny- 
son at  the  time  was  doing  for  the  Arthurian  cycle,  presenting 
it,  not  as  a  continuous  narrative,  but  as  a  series  of  poetic 
studies.  The  figures  of  the  heroic  cycle,  however,  were  too 
primitive,  too  elemental,  too  full  of  their  own  sort  of  humour 
for  Ferguson  to  take  them  on  their  own  terms.     He  made 

8 


them  conform  a  good  deal  to  Victorian  rectitudes.  And  yet, 
it  has  to  be  said  that  he  blazed  a  trail  in  the  trackless  region 
of  Celtic  romance;  the  prelude  to  his  studies,  "The  Tain 
Quest,"  written  in  a  heady  ballad  metre,  is  quite  a  stirrinp: 
poem,  and  his  "Conairy"  manages  to  convey  a  sense  of  vast 
and  mysterious  action.  It  was  to  Ferguson  that  W.  B.  Yeats 
turned  when  he  began  his  deliberate  task  of  creating  a  na- 
tional literature  for  Ireland. 

With  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson  there  is  associated  a  poet  whom 
he  long  outlived,  James  Clarence  Mangan.  Mangan  was  a 
great  rhapsodist  if  not  a  great  poet.  He  was  an  original 
metrical  artist,  and  it  is  possible  that  Edgar  Allen  Poe  learnt 
some  metrical  devices  from  him.*  The  themes  that  this  poet 
seized  on  were  not  from  Irish  romance,  but  were  from  the 
history  of  the  Irish  overthrow.  And  what  moved  him  to  his 
greatest  expression  were  the  themes  that  has  a  terrible  deso- 
lation or  an  unbounded  .exultation — Brian's  palace  overthrown 
and  his  dynasty  cut  oft ;  the  Princes  of  the  line  of  Conn  dying 
unnoted  in  exile;  the  heroic  chief  of  the  Clann  Maguire  flee- 
ing unfriended  through  the  storm ;  or  else  it  is  Dark  Rosaleen 
with  her  "holy,  delicate  white  hands"  to  whom  all  is  offered 
in  a  rapture  of  dedication.  Mangan  incarnated  in  Anglo- 
Irish  poetry  the  bardic  spirit  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
centuries,  and  the  sigh  that  Egan  O'Rahilly  breathed,  ''A  mo 
Thir,  A  mo  Gradh"  "O  my  Land,  O  my  Love,"  is  breathed 
through  all  his  memorable  poetry.  He  had  the  privilege  of 
creating  the  most  lovely  of  all  feminine  representations  of 
Ireland,  and  in  "Dark  Rosaleen"  he  has  made  the  greatest, 
because  the  most  spiritual,  patriotic  poem  in  the  world's  litera- 
ture. One  has  to  describe  the  best  of  Mangan's  poems  as 
translations,  but  in  doing  so,  one  is  conscious  that  one  has  to 
extend  unduly  the  meaning  of  the  word.  And  yet,  the  im- 
pulse and  the  theme  has  come  to  him  through  the  work  of 
another,  and  this  not  only  in  the  case  of  poetry  he  took  from 
Irish  sources,  but  in  the  poetry  that  he  drew  from  German 
and  Arabic  sources. 

Mangan's  poems  were  published  in  the  forties.    There  was 

♦Mangan  published  in  the  Dublin  University  Magazine,  a 
publication  which  Poe  had  opportunities  of  seeing.  Compare 
with  Poe's  Mangan's  use  of  repetitions  and  internal  rh3mies. 


then  a  conscious  literary  movement  in  Ireland.  It  went  with 
the  European  democratic  movement,  with  the  coming  to  con- 
sciousness of  many  European  nationalities.     At  the  time  the 

Finns  were  collecting  their  Magic  Songs  that  were  to  be 
woven  into  the  enchanting  epic  of  the  Kalavala,  and  the  Bo- 
hemians were  making  their  first  efforts  to  revive  their  distinc- 
tive culture.  And  the  Irish,  wuh  their  ancient  literary  culti- 
vation and  their  varied  literary  production,  might  be  thought 
to  be  in  a  position  to  create  a  literature  at  once  national  and 
modern,  intellectual  and  heroic.  Under  the  leadership  of 
Thomas  Davis  a  movement  of  criticism  and  scholarship  was 
inaugurated — a  movement  that  might  be  looked  to  to  have 
fruit  in  a  generation. 

Then  came  the  terrible  disaster  of  the  famine — of  the 
double  famine,  for  the  famine  of  '47  followed  the  famine 
of  '46.  The  effect  of  this  national  disaster  (until  the  war 
no  European  people  had  suffered  such  a  calamity  in  two  hun- 
dred years)  was  the  making  of  a  great  rent  in  the  social  life. 
How  it  affected  everything  that  belonged  to  the  imagination 
may  be  guessed  at  from  a  sentence  written  by  George  Petrie. 
He  made  the  great  collection  of  Irish  music,  but  in  the  preface 
to  his  collection  he  laments  that  he  entered  the  field  too  late. 
What  impressed  him  most  about  the  Ireland  after  the  famine 
was,  as  he  says,  "the  sudden  silence  of  the  fields."  Before,  no 
one  could  have  walked  a  roadway  without  hearing  music  and 
song;  now  there  was  cessation,  and  this  meant  a  break  in 
the  whole  tradition. 

And  what  Petrie  noted  with  regard  to  music  was  true  for 
song  and  saga.  The  song  perished  with  the  tune.  The  older 
generation  who  were  the  custodians  of  the  national  tradition 
were  the  first  to  go  down  to  the  famine  graves.  And  in  the 
years  that  followed  the  people  had  little  heart  for  the  re- 
membering of  "old,  unhappy,  far-off  things  and  battles  long 
ago."  The  history  of  Ireland  since  is  a  record  of  recovery 
and  relapse  after  an  attack  that  almost  meant  the  death  of 
the  race. 


10 


Ill 

That  Ireland  stirs  so  powerfully  to-day  means  that  a  re- 
covery has  been  made.  There  is  a  national  resurgence.  And 
as  part  of  the  national  resurgence  there  has  come  that  liter- 
ary movement,  beginning  in  the  eighties,  which  is  generally 
termed  the  Irish  Literary  Rennaissance. 

There  are  three  writers  who  have  each  contributed  a  dis- 
tinctive idea  to  this  literary  movement — ^W.  B.  Yeats, 
George  W.  Russell,  and  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde.  The  idea 
that  Mr.  Yeats  has  contributed  is  that  of  a  culture  that  would 
be  personal  and  aristocratic.  Irish  poetry,  when  he  began 
his  work,  was  in  close  alliance  with  political  journalism.  The 
Irish  political  movement  had  become  parliamentary  and  argu- 
mentative, and  this  spirit  had  influenced  the  work  of  the  poets. 
Irish  poetry  tended  to  the  hackneyed  in  form  and  the  im- 
personal in  mood.  Mr.  Yeats,  by  devoting  his  artistic  energy 
to  the  creation  of  subtle  and  beautiful  forms,  brought  a  crea- 
tive idea  to  the  younger  writers.  He  preached  to  them 
continuously  about  discipline,  form,  personal  emotion.  In 
his  early  volume,  "The  Wanderings  of  Oisin,"  he  opened  up  a 
fresh  world  for  the  poets  of  the  new  time — a  world  where 
there  is  nothing  but  enchantment.  And  soon  he  was  able  to 
convince  the  younger  poets  that  they  were  most  racial,  that 
they  were  most  Gaelic,  when  they  were  disciplining  themselves 
for  the  creation  of  exact  forms:  Gaelic  poetry,  it  was  easy 
to  show,  had  ever  for  its  ideal  the  creation  of  highly- wrought 
forms. 

He  insisted  that  personality  was  the  root  of  poetry,  and 

11 


that  the  exgression  of  opinion  and  of  collective  feeling  was 
for  the  journalists  and  the  political  orators.  Mr.  Yeats  is 
regarded  as  a  mystical  poet:  he  is  not  mystical,  however,  but 
intellectual,  and  the  poems  in  "The  Wind  Amongst  the  Reeds" 
that  has  given  him  the  name  of  being  a  mystic  are  esoteric 
rather  than  mystical ;  they  belong  to  the  movement  that  pro- 
duced the  French  symbolists.  The  Irish  mind  is  intellectual 
rather  than  mystical,  but  it  is  very  prone  to  take  an  interest 
in  (the  words  have  been  used  to  describe  a  tendency  of  the 
Irish  mediaeval  philosophers)  "what  is  remote,  esoteric,  and 
cryptic."  Mr.  Yeats,  in  Irish  letters,  has  stood  for  the  intel- 
lectual attitude. 

But  the  poet  who  has  been  his  comrade  in  the  Art  School 
in  Dublin  was  really  a  mystic.  This  was  George  W.  Russell, 
who  was  to  publish  his  poem  under  the  initials  "A.  E."  Like 
all  mystics  "A.  E."  is  content  to  express  a  single  idea,  and 
when  one  has  entered  into  the  mood  of  one  of  his  poems  one 
can  understand  the  whole  of  his  poetry  and  the  whole  of  his 
philosophy.  In  his  three  books  of  verse,  and  in  his  two  books 
of  imaginations  and  reveries,  in  his  book  on  economics,  "A.  E." 
has  stated  his  single,  all-sufficing  thought.  Men  are  the 
strayed  Heaven-Dwellers.  They  are  involved  in  matter  now, 
but  in  matter  they  are  creating  a  new  impire  for  the  spirit. 
This  doctrine  which  might  form  the  basis  for  a  universal  re- 
ligion has  been  put  into  an  Irish  frame  by  the  poet.  "A.  E.," 
too,  has  been  drawn  to  the  study  of  the  remains  of  Celtic 
civilization.  He  sees  in  Celtic  mythology  a  fragment  of  the 
cosmology  once  held  by  the  Indians,  the  Egyptians,  the  Greeks. 
And  he  alludes  to  the  Celtic  divinities  as  if  Lugh,  Angus, 
Mananaum,  Dagda,  Dana,  were  as  well-known  as  Apollo, 
Eros,  Oceanus,  Zeus,  Hera. 

"A.  E.'s"  vision  is  not  for  all  the  Irish  writers  who  have 
come  under  his  influence.  But  he  has  taught  every  one  of 
them  to  look  to  the  spiritual  significance  of  the  fact  or  the 
event  he  writes  about.  As  he  is  one  of  the  leaders  of  the 
Agricultural  Co-operative  Movement  and  as  he  edits  a  co- 
operative journal  his  influence  goes  far  beyond  the  literary 
circles. 

Dr.  Douglas  Hyde  has  written  in  Gaelic  and  in  English; 
he  has  written  poems,  plays  and  essays,  but  it  is  by  his  col- 

12 


lection  of  folk-poetry  that  he  has  most  influenced  contempor- 
ary Irish  literature.  He  came  into  contact  with  the  Gaelic 
tradition,  not  through  books  but  by  living  with  the  farmers 
and  fishers  of  the  West  of  Ireland. 

The  Gaelic-speaking  population  of  Ireland  had  now  shrunk 
to  some-out-of-the-way  districts  along  the  Western,  South- 
ern, and  Northwestern  coasts.  But  in  the  Western  districts 
— in  Connacht — this  poet-scholar  was  able  to  make  consider- 
able gleanings.  He  has  published  "The  Love  Songs  of  Con- 
nacht" and  "The  Religious  Songs  of  Connacht,"  two  sections 
of  a  great  collection  of  the  folk-poetry  of  Connacht,  and  the 
publication  of  these  songs  has  been  one  of  the  greatest  in- 
fluences on  the  new  Irish  literature.* 

Dr.  Hyde,  in  translating  these  Gaelic  folk-songs  into  Eng- 
lish, reproduced  in  several  instances  the  distinctive  metrical 
effects  of  Gaelic  poetry,  and  showed  how  various  interesting 
forms  might  be  adopted  into  English.  But  the  influence  of 
the  songs  themselves  was  to  transcend  any  effects  of  language 
or  verse-structure.  The  young  Irish  poets  who  had  been 
brought  up  in  a  culture  remote  from  their  racial  inheritance 
were  to  find  in  them,  not  only  an  intensity  and  a  moving 
simplicity;  they  were  to  find  in  them,  too,  a  racial  spirit,  a 
special  character,  a  country's  features.  The  actuality  that  is 
in  many  of  the  Connacht  Love  Songs  has  been  brought  into 
Irish  poetry  in  English. 

The  Gaelic  League  which  Dr.  Hyde  was  for  long  president 
of  has  had  a  large  and  impersonal  influence  on  Irish  litera- 

*The  influence  has  been  exerted  not  only  on  poetry,  but 
on  the  dialogue  in  the  new  Irish  drama  as  well.  In  making 
literal  prose  renderings  of  some  of  the  songs  he  used  the 
idiom  and  rhythm  used  by  the  Irish  peasant  in  speaking  Eng- 
lish. Lady  Gregory  was  influenced  by  Dr.  Hyde's  discovery 
in  making  her  versions  of  the  old  romances.  Mr.  Yeats  com- 
mended the  idiom  to  John  M.  Synge.  Synge's  rhythmic  and 
colored  idiom  is  very  close  to  Dr.  Hyde's  prose  versions  of 
the  Connacht  songs.  Here  is  a  verse  from  one  of  them— "if 
you  were  to  see  the  Star  of  Knowledge  and  she  coming  in  the 
mouth  of  the  road,  you  would  say  that  it  was  a  jewel  at  a 
distance  from  you,  who  would  disperse  fog  and  enchant- 
ment; her  countenance  red  like  the  roses,  and  her  eye  like 
the  dew  of  the  harvest;  her  thin  little  mouth  very  pretty,  and 
her  neck  of  the  color  of  lime." 

13 


turc.  In  1899  Dr.  Hyde  ended  his  account  of  Gaelic  literature 
with  these  words:  "The  question  whether  the  national  lan- 
guage is  to  become  wholly  extinct  like  the  Cornish,  is  one 
which  must  be  decided  within  the  next  ten  years.  There  are 
probably  a  hundred  and  fifty  households  in  Ireland  at  this 
moment  where  the  parents  speak  Irish  amongst  themselves, 
and  the  children  answer  them  in  English.  If  a  current  of 
popular  feeling  can  be  aroused  amongst  these,  the  great  cause 
— for  great  it  appears  even  now  to  foreigners,  and  greater 
it  will  appear  to  the  future  generations  of  the  Irish  them- 
selves—of the  preservation  of  the  oldest  and  most  cultivated 
vernacular  in  Europe,  except  Greek  alone,  is  assured  of  suc- 
cess, and  Irish  literature,  the  production  of  which  though 
long  dribbling  in  a  narrow  channel — has  never  actually  ceased, 
may  again,  as  it  is  even  now  promising  to  do,  burst  forth 
into  life  and  vigor,  and  once  more  give  the  expression  which 
in  English  seems  impossible,  to  the  best  thoughts  and  aspira- 
tions of  the  Gaelic  race."  Less  than  two  decades  after  this 
was  written  Padraic  Pearse  was  writing  his  poetry  in  Gaelic, 
and  creating  a  new  tradition  of  poetry  in  that  language,  and 
Thomas  MacDonagh  was  declaring  in  his  lectures  to  the 
students  of  the  new  National  University,  "The  Gaelic  revival 
has  given  to  some  of  us  a  new  arrogance.  I  am  a  Gael  and  I 
know  no  cause  but  of  pride  in  that.  Gaedhal  me  agus  no  h-eol 
dont  gur  nair  dom  e.  My  race  has  survived  the  wiles  of  the 
foreigner  here.  It  has  refused  to  yield  even  to  defeat,  and 
emerges  strong  to-day,  full  of  hope  and  of  love,  with  new 
strength  in  its  arms  to  work  its  new  destiny,  with  a  new 
song  on  its  lips  and  the  word  of  the  new  language,  which  is 
the  ancient  language,  still  calling  from  age  to  age." 


14 


IV 

In  the  second  section  of  this  Anthology  there  is  a  collec-« 
tion  of  songs  mainly  anonymous — the  songs  of  the  street  and 
the  countryside.  These  songs  are  a  distinctive  national  pos- 
session, and,  in  many  cases,  they  have  been  a  medium  through 
which  Gaelic  influences  have  passed  into  English. 

Certain  traditional  songs  of  the  countryside  have  been 
passing  over  from  Gaelic  into  English  ever  since  English 
began  to  be  used  familiarly  here  and  there  in  the  countryside. 
Not  so  many,  however;  very  few  of  the  famous  Gaelic  songs 
have  been  changed  from  Gaelic  into  English  by  the  country 
people  themselves.  But  as  English  became  a  little  more  fa- 
miliar, or  Gaelic  a  little  less  familiar,  translations  were  made, 
or  rather,  transferences  took  place  with  the  music  remaining 
to  keep  the  mould.  Thus  a  technique  that  was  more  Gaelic 
than  English  grew  up  in  the  country  places ;  and  even  before 
scholarship  made  any  revelation  of  Gaelic  literature  to  the 
cultivated,  an  interpenetration  of  the  two  literatures  was 
taking  place. 

These  anonymous  songs  are  of  two  distinct  types — ^the  song 
that  has  in  it  some  personal  emotion  or  imagining ;  that  comes 
out  of  a  reverie. 

My  love  is  like  the  sun. 

That  in  the  firmament  does  run, 
And  always  is  constant  and  true; 

But  his  is  like  the  moon, 

That  wanders  up  and  down. 
And  every  month  it  is  new. 

15 


and  the  song  that  has  in  it  the  sentiment  of  the  crowd: 

The  French  are  on  the  say. 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht, 
The  French  are  on  the  say, 
They'll  be  here  without  delay, 
And  the  Orange  will  decay, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

The  first  is  the  song  of  the  countryside  as  it  is  found  all  the 
world  over,  the  second  is  that  very  characteristic  Irish  prod- 
uct, the  street-song  or  ballad. 

It  is  the  business  of  the  singer  of  the  street-song  and  of  the 
man  who  makes  the  verses  for  him  to  hold  the  casual  crowd 
that  happens  to  be  at  the  fair  or  the  market.  The  maker  of 
the  street-song  cannot  prepare  the  mind  of  his  audience  for 
his  story,  and  so  he  has  to  deal  with  an  event  the  significance 
of  which  has  been  already  felt — a  political  happening,  a  mur- 
der, an  execution.  The  maker  of  the  street-song  has  to  make 
himself  the  chorus  in  the  drama  of  daily  happenings.  He  has 
always  to  be  dramatic: 

I  met  with  Napper  Tandy,  and  he  took  me  by  the  hand, 
And  he  said,  "How  is  poor  Ireland,  and  how  does  she  stand  ?" 

Or: 

O  then  tell  me,  Shaun  O'Farrell,  why  do  you  hurry  so? 

More  than  any  other  Anglo-Irish  verse  product,  these  street- 
songs  show  the  influences  of  Gaelic  music  and  the  technique 
of  Gaelic  poetry.  One  finds  stanzas  the  rhythm  of  which 
reproduces  the  distinctive  rhythm  of  the  music: 

On  the  blood-crimsoned  plains  the  Irish  Brigade  nobly  stood, 
They  fought  at  Orleans  till  the  streams  they  ran  with  their 

blood ; 
Far  away  from  their  land,  in  the  arms  of  death  they  repose, 

16 


For  they  fought  for  poor  France,  and  they  fell  by  the  hands 
of  her  foes. 

A  stanza  of  Moore's  has  been  already  quoted  to  show  a 
Gaelic  verse-structure,  with  all  the  correspondences  based  on 
a  single  vowel.  In  the  street-songs,  and  the  more  personal 
songs  of  the  country-side,  made  as  they  have  been,  by  men 
more  familiar  with  the  Gaelic  than  with  the  English  way  of 
making  verse,  one  often  finds  the  same  elaborate  and  dis- 
tinctive structure.  Take,  for  instance,  the  song  in  the  second 
section  called  "The  Boys  of  Mullaghbaun,"  in  which  all  the 
correspondences  are  on  the  broad  "a": 

On  a  Monday  morning   early,  as   my  wandering  steps   did 

lade  me, 
Down  by  a  farmer's  station,  and  the  meadows  and  free  lands, 
I  heard  great  lamentation  the  small  birds  they  were  making. 
Saying,  "We'll  have  no  more  engagements  with  the  Boys  of 

Mullaghhaun!" 

Thus  music  and  the  memory  of  Gaelic  verse  has  left  in  the 
Irish  country  places  a  technique  that  is  as  much  Gaelic  as 
English.  In  not  all  of  them,  however;  in  parts  of  Ulster, 
Scots  song  has  had  influence  and  currency. 


Tt 


One  of  the  characteristics  of  Irish  poetry  according  to 
Thomas  MacDonagh  is  a  certain  naivete.  "An  Irish  poet," 
he  says,  "if  he  be  individual,  if  he  be  original,  if  he  be  na- 
tional, speaks,  almost  stammers,  in  one  of  the  two  fresh 
languages  of  this  country;  in  Irish  (modern  Irish,  newly 
schooled  by  Europe),  or  in  Anglo-Irish,  English  as  we  speak 
it  in  Ireland.  .  .  .  Such  an  Irish  poet  can  still  express  himself 
in  the  simplest  terms  of  life  and  of  the  common  furniture  of 
life."  * 

Thomas  MacDonagh  is  speaking  here  of  the  poetry  that  is 
being  written  to-day,  of  the  poetry  that  comes  out  of  a  com- 
munity that  is  still  mainly  agricultural,  that  is  still  close 
to  the  soil,  that  has  but  few  possessions.  And  yet,  with  this 
naivete  there  must  go  a  great  deal  of  subtility.  "Like  the 
Japanese,"  says  Kuno  Meyer,  "the  Celts  were  always  quick 
to  take  an  artistic  hint;  they  avoid  the  obvious  and  the  com- 
monplace; the  half-said  thing  to  them  is  dearest."!  This  is 
said  of  the  poetry  written  in  Ireland  many  centuries  ago,  but 
the  subtility  that  the  critic  credits  the  Celts  with  is  still  a 
racial  heritage. 

Irish  poetry  begins  with  a  dedication — a  dedication  of  the 
race  to  the  land.  The  myth  of  the  invasion  tells  that  the  first 
act  of  the  invaders  was  the  invoking  of  the  land  of  Ireland — 
its  hills,  its  rivers,  its  forests,  its  cataracts.     Amergin,  the 

*  Literature  in  Ireland, 
t  Ancient  Irish  Poetry. 

18 


first  poet,  pronounced  the  invocation  from  one  of  their  ships, 
thereby  dedicating  the  Milesian  race  to  the  mysterious  land. 
That  dedication  is  in  many  poems  made  since  Amergin*s  time 
— the  dedication  of  the  poet  to  the  land,  of  the  race  to  the 
land. 

When  the  Milesian  Celts  drew  in  their  ships  they  found, 
peopling  the  island,  not  a  folk  to  be  destroyed  or  mingled 
with,  but  a  remote  and  ever-living  race,  the  Tuatha  De 
Danaan,  the  Golden  Race  of  Hesiod.  Between  the  Milesians 
and  the  Tuatha  De  Danaan  a  truce  was  made  with  a  parti- 
tioning of  the  country.  To  the  Milesians  went  the  upper  sur- 
face and  the  accessible  places,  and  to  the  De  Danaans  went 
the  subterranean  and  the  inaccessible  places  of  the  land. 
Thus,  in  Ireland,  the  Golden  Race  did  not  go  down  before 
the  men  of  the  Iron  Race.  They  stayed  to  give  glimpses  of 
more  lovely  countries,  more  beautiful  lovers,  more  passionate 
and  adventurous  lives  to  princes  and  peasants  for  more  than 
a  thousand  years.  And  so  an  enchantment  has  stayed  in  this 
furthest  of  European  lands — an  enchantment  that  still  lives 
through  the  Fairy  Faith  of  the  people,  and  that  left  in  the 
old  literature  an  allurement  that,  through  the  Lays  of  Marie 
de  France,  through  the  memorable  incidents  in  the  Tristan 
and  Iseult  story,  through  the  quests  which  culminated  outside 
of  Ireland  in  the  marvellous  legend  of  the  Grail,  has  passed 
into  European  literature. 

Whether  it  has  or  has  not  to  do  with  the  prosaic  issue  of 
self-determination,  it  is  certain  that  Irish  poetry  in  these  lat- 
ter days  is  becoming  more,  and  not  less  national.  But  it  is  no 
longer  national  in  the  deliberate  way  that  Thomas  Davis 
thought  it  should  be  national,  as  "condensed  and  gem-like 
history,"  *  or,  as  his  example  in  ballad-making  tended  to  make 
it  national,  by  an  insistence  upon  collective  political  feeling. 

Strongbow's  force,  and  Henry's  wile, 
Tudor's  wrath  and  Stuarfs  guile, 

*  "National  poetry  .  .  .  binds  us  to  the  land  by  its  condensed 
and  gem-like  history.  It  .  .  .  fires  us  in  action,  prompts  our 
invention,  sheds  a  grace  beyond  the  power  of  luxury  round 
our  homes,  it  is  the  recognized  envoy  of  our  minds  among  all 
mankind,  and  to  all  time." 

19 


And  iron  Strafford's  tiger  jaws, 
And  brutal  Brunswick's  penal  laws ; 
Not  forgetting  Saxon  faith, 
Not  forgetting  Norman  scath. 
Not  forgetting  William's  word, 
Not  forgetting  Cromwell's  sword. 

No,  Irish  poetry  is  no  longer  national  in  the  deliberate  or 
the  claimant  way.  But  it  is  becoming  national  as  the  Irish 
landscape  is  national,  as  the  tone  and  gesture  of  the  Irish 
peasant  is  national.  It  is  national  in  "A.  E,'s"  poetry — if  not 
in  those  mystical  reveries  that  transcend  race  and  nationality, 
then  in  those  impassioned  statements  in  which  he  celebrates  or 
rebukes  the  actions  of  some  group  or  some  individual;  it  is 
national  in  W.  B.  Yeats's  poetry,  in  his  range  from  invective 
to  the  poetry  of  abstract  love;  it  is  national  in  the  landscape 
that  Joseph  Campbell  evokes ;  in  the  bardic  exuberance  of  lan- 
guage that  James  Stephens  turns  into  poetry;  in  the  delicate 
rhythms  of  Seumas  O'Sullivan's  lyrics  and  in  their  remote- 
ness ;  in  the  hedgerows  and  the  little  fields  that  Francis  Led- 
widge's  verse  images;  in  the  dedication  that  is  in  Joseph 
Plunkett's  poetry,  and  in  the  high  and  happy  adventurousness 
that  is  in  the  poetry  of  Thomas  MacDonagh. 


20 


PART   I 

THE  HOUSE,  THE  ROAD,  THE  FIELD, 
THE  FAIR,  AND  THE  FIRESIDE 


A  Poem  To  Be  Said  on  Hearing  the  Birds  Sing 

A  FRAGRANT  prayer  upon  the  air 
My  child  taught  me, 
Awaken  there,  the  morn  is  fair, 
The  birds  sing  free; 
Now  dawns  the  day,  awake  and  pray. 
And  bend  the  knee; 
The  Lamb  who  lay  beneath  the  clay 
Was  slain  for  thee. 

Translated  by  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde. 


The  Song  of  the  Old  Mother 

T  RISE  in  the  dawn,  and  I  kneel  and  blow 
Till  the  seed  of  the  fire  flicker  and  glow; 
And  then  I  must  scrub  and  bake  and  sweep 
Till  stars  are  beginning  to  blink  and  peep; 
A.nd  the  young  lie  long  and  dream  in  their  bed 
Of  the  matching  of  ribbons  for  bosom  and  head, 
And  their  day  goes  over  in  idleness, 
And  they  sigh  if  the  wind  but  lift  a  tress: 
While  I  must  work  because  I  am  old. 
And  the  seed  of  the  fire  gets  feeble  and  cold. 

William  Butler  Yeats. 


On   Waking 

OLEEP,  gray  brother  of  death, 

Has  touched  me, 
And  passed  on. 

I  arise,  facing  the  east — 
Pearl-doored  sanctuary 
From  which  the  light. 
Hand-linked  with  dew  and  fire, 
Dances. 

Hail,  essence,  hail! 

Fill  the  windows  of  my  soul 

With  beauty: 

Pierce  and  renew  my  bones : 

Pour  knowledge  into  my  heart 

As  wine. 

Cualann  is  bright  before  thee. 

Its  rocks  melt  and  swim: 

The  secret  they  have  kept 

From  the  ancient  nights  of  darkness 

Flies  like  a  bird. 

What  mourns? 

Cualann's  secret  flying. 

A  lost  voice 

In  endless  fields. 

What  rejoices? 

My  voice  lifted  praising  thee. 

Praise !     Praise !     Praise ! 
Praise  out  of  the  trumpets,  whose  brass 
Is  the  unyoked  strength  of  bulls; 
24 


Praise  upon  the  harp,  whose  strings 
Are  the  light  movement  of  birds ; 
Praise  of  leaf,  praise  of  blossom, 
Praise  of  the  red-fibred  clay; 
Praise  of  grass, 
Fire-woven  veil  of  the  temple; 
Praise  of  the  shapes  of  clouds ; 
Praise  of  the  shadows  of  wells; 
Praise  of  worms,  of  fetal  things, 
And  of  things  in  time's  thought 
Not  yet  begotten. 
To  thee,  queller  of  sleep. 
Looser  of  the  snare  of  death. 

Joseph  Campbell. 


36 


A  Day  in  Ireland 

pOUR  sharp  scythes  sweeping — in  concert  keeping 

The  rich-robed  meadow's  broad  bosom  o*er, 
Four  strong  men  mowing,  with  bright  health  glowing 

A  long  green  swath  spread  each  man  before ; 
With  sinews  springing — my  keen  blade  swinging, — 

I  strode — the  fourth  man  in  that  blithe  band ; 
As  stalk  of  corn  that  summer  morn. 

The  scythe  felt  light  in  my  stalwart  hand. 

Oh,  King  of  Glory  I    How  changed  my  story. 

Since  in  youth's  noontide — long,  long  ago, 
I  mowed  that  meadow — no  cloudy  shadow 

Between  my  brow  and  the  hot  sun's  glow ; 
Fair  girls  raking  the  hay — and  making 

The  fields  resound  with  their  laugh  and  glee, 
Their  voices  ringing — than  cuckoo's  singing. 

Made  music  sweeter  by  far  to  me. 

Bees  hovered  over  the  honied  clover, 

Then  nestward  hied  upon  wings  of  light; 
No  use  in  trying  to  trace  them  flying — 

One  brief  low  hum  and  they're  out  of  sight. 
On  downy  thistle  bright  insects  nestle, 

Or  flutter  skyward  on  painted  wings, 
At  times  alighting  on  flowers  inviting — 

Twas  pleasant  watching  the  airy  things. 


26 


From  hazel  bushes  came  songs  of  thrushes 

And  blackbirds — sweeter  than  harper's  lay; 
While  high  in  ether — with  sun-tipped  feather — 

The  skylark  warbled  his  anthem  gay; 
With   throats   distended,   sweet  linnets   blended 

A  thousand  notes  in  one  glorious  chime, 
Oh,  King  Eternal,  'twas  life  supernal 

In  beauteous  Erin,  that  pleasant  time. 

Translated  by  Michael  Cavanagh. 


27 


A  Drover 

nrO  MEATH  of  the  pastures, 
From  wet  hills  by  the  sea, 
Through  Leitrim  and  Longford 
Go  my  cattle  and  me. 

I  hear  in  the  darkness 
Their  slipping  and  breathing. 
I  name  them  the  bye-ways 
They're  to  pass  without  heeding. 

Then  the  wet,  winding  roads, 
Brown  bogs  with  black  water; 
And  my  thoughts  on  white  ships 
And  the  King  o'  Spain's  daughter. 

O!  farmer,  strong  farmer! 
You  can  spend  at  the  fair 
But  your  face  you  must  turn 
To  your  crops  and  your  care. 

And  soldiers — red  soldiers! 
YouVe  seen  many  lands; 
But  you  walk  two  by  two. 
And  by  captain's  commands. 

O!  the  smell  of  the  beasts. 
The  wet  wind  in  the  morn; 
And  the  proud  and  hard  earth 
Never  broken  for  corn; 


28 


And  the  crowds  at  the  fair, 
The  herds  loosened  and  blind, 
Loud  words  and  dark  faces 
And  the  wild  blood  behind. 

(O !  strong  men  with  your  best 
I  would  strive  breast  to  breast 
I  could  quiet  your  herds 
With  my  words,  with  my  words.) 

I  will  bring  you,  my  kine, 
Where  there's  grass  to  the  knee; 
But  you'll  think  of  scant  croppings 
Harsh  with  salt  of  the  sea. 

Padraic  Colum. 


29 


The  Blind  Man  at  the  Fair 

QTO  be  blind! 

To  know  the  darkness  that  I  know. 
The  stir  I  hear  is  empty  wind, 
The  people  idly  come  and  go. 

The  sun  is  black,  tho*  warm  and  kind, 
The  horsemen  ride,  the  streamers  blow 
Vainly  in  the  fluky  wind. 
For  all  is  darkness  where  I  go. 

The  cattle  bellow  to  their  kind. 
The  mummers  dance,  the  jugglers  throw, 
The  thimble-rigger  speaks  his  mind — 
But  all  is  darkness  where  I  go. 

I  feel  the  touch  of  womankind, 
Their  dresses  flow  as  white  as  snow; 
But  beauty  is  a  withered  rind 
For  all  is  darkness  where  I  go. 

Last  night  the  moon  of  Lammas  shined, 
Rising  high  and  setting  low; 
But  light  is  nothing  to  the  blind — 
All,  all  is  darkness  where  they  go. 

White  roads  I  walk  with  vacant  mind. 
White  cloud-shapes  round  me  drifting  slow, 
White  lilies  waving  in  the  wind — 
And  darkness  everywhere  I  go. 

Joseph    Campbell. 


30 


Market  Women's  Cries 


/^OME  buy  my  fine  wares, 
Plums,  apples  and  pears. 
A  hundred  a  penny, 
In  conscience  too  many: 
Come,  will  you  have  any? 
My  children  are  seven, 
I  wish  them  in  Heaven; 
My  husband  's  a  sot. 
With  his  pipe  and  his  pot. 
Not  a  farthen  will  gain  them. 
And   I  must  maintain  them. 

ONIONS 

Come,  follow  me  by  the  smell. 

Here  are  delicate  onions  to  sell; 

I  promise  to  use  you  well. 

They  make  the  blood  warmer. 

You'll  feed  like  a  farmer; 
For  this  is  every  cook's  opinion. 
No  savoury  dish  without  an  onion; 
But,  lest  your  kissing  should  be  spoiled. 
Your  onions  must  be  thoroughly  boiled: 


31 


Or  else  you  may  spare 

Your  mistress  a  share, 
The  secret  will  never  be  known : 

She  cannot  discover 

The  breath  of  her  lover, 
But  think  it  as  sweet  as  her  own. 

HERRINGS 

Be  not  sparing, 

Leave  off  swearing. 

Buy  my  herring 

Fresh  from  Malahide, 

Better  never  was  tried. 
Come,  eat  them  with  pure  fresh  butter  and  mustard, 
Their  bellies  are  soft,  and  as  white  as  a  custard. 
Come,  sixpence  a  dozen,  to  get  me  some  bread. 
Or,  like  my  own  herrings,  I  soon  shall  be  dead. 

Jonathan  Swift. 


John-John 

J  DREAMT  last  night  of  you,  John-John, 

And  thought  you  called  to  me; 
And  when  I  woke  this  morning,  John, 
Yourself  I  hoped  to  see; 
But  I  was  all  alone,  John- John, 
Though  still  I  heard  your  call; 
I  put  my  boots  and  bonnet  on, 
And  took  my  Sunday  shawl. 
And  went  full  sure  to  find  you,  John, 
At  Nenagh  fair. 

The  fair  was  just  the  same  as  then. 
Five  years  ago  to-day. 
When  first  you  left  the  thimble-men 
And  came  with  me  away; 
For  there  again  were  thimble-men 
And  shooting  galleries. 
And  card-trick  men  and  maggie-men, 
Of  all  sorts  and  degrees ; 
But  not  a  sight  of  you,  John-John, 
Was  anywhere. 

I  turned  my  face  to  home  again. 

And  called  myself  a  fool 

To  think  you'd  leave  the  thimble-men 

And  live  again  by  rule. 

To  go  to  mass  and  keep  the  fast 

And  till  the  little  patch ; 


33 


My  wish  to  have  you  home  was  past 
Before  I  raised  the  latch 
And  pushed  the  door  and  saw  you,  John, 
Sitting  down  there. 

How  cool  you  came  in  here,  begad, 
As  if  you  owned  the  place! 
But  rest  yourself  there  now,  my  lad, 
*Tis  good  to  see  your  face ; 
My  dream  is  out,  and  now  by  it 
I  think  I  know  my  mind : 
At  six  o'clock  this  house  you'll  quit. 
And  leave  no  grief  behind; — 
But  until  six  o'clock,  John-John, 
My  bit  you'll  share. 

The  neighbours'  shame  of  me  began 
When  first  I  brought  you  in ; 
To  wed  and  keep  a  tinker  man 
They  thought. a  kind  of  sin; 
But  now  this  three  years  since  you've  gone 
'Tis  pity  me  they  do. 
And  that  I'd  rather  have,  John- John, 
Than  that  they'd  pity  you. 
Pity  for  me  and  you,  John- John, 
I  could  not  bear. 

Oh,  you're  my  husband  right  enough, 
But  what's  the  good  of  that? 
You  know  you  never  were  the  stuff 
To  be  the  cottage  cat, 
To  watch  the  fire  and  hear  me  lock 
The  door  and  put  out  Shep — 
But  there,  now,  it  is  six  o'clock 
And  time  for  you  to  step. 
God  bless  and  keep  you  far,  John- John  I 
And  that's  my  prayer. 

Thomas  MacDonagh. 


34 


No  Miracle 

nPHEY  had  a  tale  on  which  to  gWt, 

The  gossips  sitting  in  a  row : 
How  Feylimeed  took  wife  by  throat 
And  broke  her  beauty  with  a  blow. 

And  one,  and  then  another,  said: 
Ah,  fortunate  if  now  she  die; 
For  piteous  is  a  cloth-bound  head 
Instead  of  beauty's  flashing  eye. 

Else  to  some  desert  let  her  go 
From  women's  words   and  eyes  of  men, 
But  ancient  Eefa  whispered  low: 
"Simply  you  read  the  story  then." 

No  other  word  old  Eefa  spoke 
But  smiling  blinked  from  side  to  side, 
Till  Enna,  breathless,  on  them  broke 
Her  mouth  and  eyes  with  horror  wide. 

"He  gropes  his  way,  his  eyes  are  out!" 
"Who  gropes  his  way?"    "Why,  Faylimeedl" 
"The  blind  cat's  fingers,  without  doubt 
Got  at  them  sleeping?"    "Nay,  indeed, 

"No  fingers  but  his  own  plucked,  flung 
Them  dazzling  in  the  sullen  tide. 
For  ah,  they  say  his  heart  was  wrung 
To  see  the  wreck  of  beauty's  pride." 


35 


Then  Eefa  whispered  from  her  place: 
"As  Faylimeed  gripped  wife  by  throat 
Her  eyes  flashed  love  into  his  face 
And  his  heart  blazed  while  his  hand  smote.' 
Daniel  Corkery. 


36 


Let  Us  Be  Merry  Before  We  Go 

TF  SADLY  thinking,  with  spirits  sinking. 

Could,  more  than  drinking,  my  cares  compose 
A  cure  for  sorrow  from  sighs  I'd  borrow. 
And  hope  to-morrow  would  end  my  woes. 
But  as  in  wailing  there's  nought  availing, 
And  Death  unfailing  will  strike  the  blow. 
Then  for  that  reason,  and  for  a  season, 
Let  us  be  merry  before  we  go. 

To  joy  a  stranger,  a  wayworn  ranger, 
In  every  danger  my  course  IVe  run ; 
Now  hope  all  ending,  and  death  befriending. 
His  last  aid  lending,  my  cares  are  done. 
No  more  a  rover,  or  hapless  lover, 
My  griefs  are  over — my  glass  runs  low ; 
Then  for  that  reason,  and  for  a  season. 
Let  us  be  merry  before  we  go. 

John  Philpot  Curran. 
See  Note  Page  343. 


37 


Had  I  a  Golden  Pound 

ILJAD  I  a  golden  pound  to  spend, 

My  love  should  mend  and  sew  no  more. 
And  I  would  buy  her  a  little  quern, 
Easy  to  turn  on  the  kitchen  floor. 

And  for  her  windows  curtains  white. 
With  birds  in  flight  and  flowers  in  bloom. 
To  face  with  pride  the  road  to  town. 
And  mellow  down  her  sunlit  room. 

And  with  the  silver  change  we*d  prove 
The  Truth  of  Love  to  life's  own  end. 
With  hearts  the  years  could  but  embolden. 
Had  I  a  golden  pound  to  spend. 

Francis  Ledwidge. 


38 


A  H,  HAD  you  seen  the  Coolun, 

Walking  down  by  the  cuckoo's  street, 
With  the  dew  of  the  meadow  shining 
On  her  milk-white  twinkling  feet. 
My  love  she  is,  and  my  colleen  6g 
And  she  dwells  in  BaFnagar; 
And  she  bears  the  palm  of  beauty  bright 
From  the  fairest  that  in  Erin  are. 


In  Bal'nagar  is  the  Coolun: 

Like  the  berry  on  the  bough  her  cheek; 

Bright  beauty  dwells  forever 

On  her  fair  neck  and  ringlets  sleek; 

Oh,  sweeter  is  her  mouth's  soft  music 

Than  the  lark  or  thrush  at  dawn, 

Or  the  blackbird  in  the  greenwood  singing 

Farewell  to  the  setting  sun. 

Rise  up,  my  boy!  make  ready 

My  horse,  for  I  forth  would  ride, 

To  follow  the  modest  damsel. 

Where  she  walks  on  the  green  hill-side : 

For  ever  since  youth  were  we  plighted, 

In  faith,  troth,  and  wedlock  true — 

Oh,  she's  sweeter  to  me  nine  times  over 

Than  organ  or  cuckoo! 


39 


For  ever  since  my  childhood 

I  loved  the  fair  and  darling  child ; 

But  our  people  came  between  us, 

And  with  lucre  our  pure  love  defiled: 

Oh,  my  woe  it  is,  and  my  bitter  pain, 

And  I  weep  it  night  and  day, 

That  the  colleen  ban  of  my  early  love 

Is  torn  from  my  heart  away. 

Sweetheart  and  faithful  treasure. 

Be  constant  still,  and  true; 

Nor  for  want  of  herds  and  houses 

Leave  one  who  would  ne'er  leave  you. 

1*11  pledge  you  the  blessed  Bible, 

Without  and  eke  within. 

That  the  faithful  God  will  provide  for  us, 

Without  thanks  to  kith  or  kin. 

Oh,  love,  do  you  remember 
When  we  lay  all  night  alone. 
Beneath  the  ash  in  the  winter  storm. 
When  the  oak  wood  round  did  groan? 
No  shelter  then  from  the  storm  had  we. 
The  bitter  blast  or  sleet. 
But  your  gown  to  wrap  about  our  heads. 
And  my  coat  round  our  feet. 

Translated  by  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson. 
See  Note  Page  344. 


40 


Have  You  Been  at  Carrick? 

IJAVE  you  been  at  Carrick,  and  saw  my  true-love  there? 

And  saw  you  her  features,  all  beautiful,  bright,  and  fair? 

Saw  you  the  most  fragrant,  flowering,   sweet  apple-tree? — 

Oh!  saw  you  my  loved  one,  and  pines  she  in  grief  like  me? 

I  have  been  at  Carrick,  and  saw  thy  own  true-love  there; 
And  saw,  too,  her  features,  all  beautiful,  bright  and  fair; 
And  saw  the  most  fragrant,  flowering,  sweet  apple-tree— 
I  saw  thy  loved  one — she  pines  not  in  grief,  like  thee ! 

Five  guineas  would  price  every  tress  of  her  golden  hair- 
Then  think  what  a  treasure  her  pillow  at  night  to  share, 
These  tresses  thick-clustering  and  curling  around  her  brow — 
Oh,  Ringlet  of  Fairness !    I'll  drink  to  thy  beauty  now !  ! 

When  seeking  to  slumber,  my  bosom  is  rent  with  sighs — 
I  toss  on  my  pillow  till  morning's  blest  beams  arise; 
No  aid,  bright  Beloved!  can  reach  me  save  God  above, 
For  a  blood-lake  is  formed  of  the  light  of  my  eyes  with  love ! 

Until  yellow  Autumn  shall  usher  the  Paschal  day, 
And  Patrick's  gay  festival  come  in  its  train  alway — 
Although  through  my  coflin  the  blossoming  boughs  shall  grow. 
My  love  on  another  I'll  never  in  life  bestow! 

Lo!  yonder  the  maiden  illustrious,  queen-like,  high, 
With  long-flowing  tresses  adown  to  her  sandal-tie — 
Swan,  fair  as  the  lily,  descended  of  high  degree, 
A  myriad  of  welcomes,  dear  maid  of  my  heart,  to  thee! 

Translated  by  Edward  Walsh. 


41 


The  Stars  Stand  Up  in  the  Air 

THHE  stars  stand  up  in  the  air, 

The  sun  and  the  moon  are  gone, 
The  strand  of  its  waters  is  bare. 
And  her  sway  is  swept  from  the  swan. 

The  cuckoo  was  calling  all  day, 

Hid  in  the  branches  above, 

How  my  stoirin  is  fled  away, 

Tis  my  grief  that  I  gave  her  my  love. 

Three  things  through  love  I  see — 

Sorrow  and  sin  and  death — 

And  my  mind  reminding  me 

That  this  doom  I  breathe  with  my  breath. 

But  sweeter  than  violin  or  lute 
Is  my  love — and  she  left  me  behind. 
I  wisjh  that  all  music  were  mute. 
And  I  to  all  beauty  were  blind. 

She's  more  shapely  than  swan  by  the  strand, 
She's  more  radiant  than  grass  after  dew. 
She's  more  fair  than  the  stars  where  they  stand- 
'Tis  my  grief  that  her  ever  I  knew ! 
Translated  by  Thomas  MacDonagh. 


42 


Dear  Dark  Head 

pUT  your  head,  darling,  darling,  darling, 

Your  darling  black  head  my  heart  above; 

Oh,  mouth  of  honey,  with  the  thyme  for  fragrance. 

Who  with  heart  in  breast  could  deny  you  love  ? 

Oh,  many  and  many  a  young  girl  for  me  is  pining. 
Letting  her  locks  of  gold  to  the  cold  wind  free. 

For  me,  the  foremost  of  our  gay  young  fellows ; 
But  rd  leave  a  hundred,  pure  love,  for  thee! 

Then  put  your  head,  darling,  darling,  darling. 
Your  darling  black  head  my  heart  above; 

Oh,  mouth  of  honey,  with  the  thyme  for  fragrance, 
Who,  with  heart  in  breast,  could  deny  you  love  ? 
Translated  by  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson. 


43 


Pearl  of  the  White  Breast 

'T'HERE'S  a  colleen  fair  as  May, 
For  a  year  and  for  a  day, 

I've  sought  by  every  way  her  heart  to  gain 
There's  no  art  of  tongue  or  eye 
Fond  youths  with  maidens  try. 

But  IVe  tried  with  ceaseless  sigh,  yet  tried  in  vain. 

If  to  France  or  far-off  Spain 
She'd  cross  the  watery  main. 

To  see  her  face  again  the  sea  I'd  brave. 
And  if  'tis  Heaven's  decree 
That  mine  she  may  not  be, 

May  the  Son  of  Mary  me  in  mercy  save! 

O  thou  blooming  milk-white  dove. 
To  whom  I've  given  true  love. 

Do  not  ever  thus  reprove  my  constancy. 
There  are  maidens  would  be  mine. 
With  wealth  in  hand  and  kine. 

If  my  heart  would  but  incline  to  turn  from  thee. 

But  a  kiss  with  welcome  bland. 
And  a  touch  of  thy  dear  hand 

Are  all  that  I  demand,  wouldst  thou  not  spurn ; 
For  if  not  mine,  dear  girl, 
O  Snowy-Breasted  Pearl ! 

May  I  never  from  the  fair  with  life  return ! 
Translated  by  George  Petrie. 


44 


Country  Sayings 

''HE  closing  of  an  Autumn  evening  is  like  the  running  of  a 
hound  across  the  moor. 

Night  is  a  good  herd:  she  brings  all  creatures  home. 

Lie  down  with  the  lamb 

And  rise  with  the  bird. 
From  the  time  you  see  a  harrow  and  a  man  behind  it 
Until  you  see  stacks  of  turf  and  cocks  of  hay. 


45 


Cois  na  Teineadh 

TiyHERE  glows  the  Irish  hearth  with  peat 

There  lives  a  subtle  spell — 
The  faint  blue  smoke,  the  gentle  heat, 
The  moorland  odours  tell. 

Of  white  roads  winding  by  the  edge 
Of  bare,  untamed  land, 
Where  dry  stone  wall  or  ragged  hedge 
Runs  wide  on  either  hand. 

To  cottage  lights  that  lure  you  in 
From  rainy  Western  skies; 
And  by  the  friendly  glow  within 
Of  simple  talk,  and  wise, 

And  tales  of  magic,  love  or  arms 
From  days  when  princes  met 
To  listen  to  the  lay  that  charms 
The  Connacht  peasant  yet, 

There  Honour  shines  through  passions  dire, 
There  beauty  blends  with  mirth — 
Wild  hearts,  ye  never  did  aspire 
Wholly  for  things  of  earth! 

Cold,  cold  this  thousand  years — ^yet  still 
On  many  a  time-stained  page 
Your  pride,  your  truth,  your  dauntless  will, 
Burn  on  from  age  to  age. 


46 


And  still  around  the  fires  of  peat 
Live  on  the  ancient  days ; 
There  still  do  living  lips  repeat 
The  old  and  deathless  lays. 

And  when  the  wavering  wreaths  ascend 
Blue  in  the  evening  air, 
The  soul  of  Ireland  seems  to  bend 
Above  her  children  there. 

T.    W.   ROLLESTON. 

See  Note  Page  344. 


47 


k 


The  Ballad  of  Father  Gtlltgan 

'T'HE  old  priest,  Peter  Gilligan, 
Was  weary  night  and  day; 
For  half  his  flock  were  in  their  beds. 
Or  under  green  sods  lay. 

Once,  while  he  nodded  on  a  chair, 
At  the  moth -hour  of  eve, 
Another  poor  man  sent  for  him, 
And  he  began  to  grieve. 

"I  have  no  rest,  nor  joy,  nor  peace, 
For  people  die  and  die"; 
And  after  cried  he,  "God  forgive! 
My  body  spake,  not  I !" 

He  knelt,  and  leaning  on  the  chair 
He  prayed  and  fell  asleep, 
And  the  moth-hour  went  from  the  fields, 
And  stars  began  to  peep. 

They  slowly  into  millions  grew. 

And  leaves  shook  in  the  wind. 

And  God  covered  the  world  with  shade. 

And  whispered  to  mankind. 

Upon  the  time  of  sparrow  chirp 
When  the  moths  come  once  more. 
The  old  priest,  Peter  Gilligan, 
Stood  upright  on  the  floor. 


48 


"Mavrone,  mavrone !  the  man  has  died, 
While  I  slept  on  the  chair." 
He  roused  his  horse  out  of  its  sleep, 
And  rode  with  little  care. 

He  rode  now  as  he  never  rode, 

By  rocky  lane  and  fen; 

The  sick  man's  wife  opened  the  door: 

"Father!  you  come  again." 

"And  is  the  poor  man  dead?"  he  cried. 
"He  died  an  hour  ago." 
The  old  priest,  Peter  Gilligan, 
In  grief  swayed  to  and  fro. 

"When  you  were  gone,  he  turned  and  died 

As  merry  as  a  bird." 

The  old  priest,  Peter  Gilligan, 

He  knelt  him  at  that  word. 

"He  who  hath  made  the  night  of  stars 
For  souls  who  tire  and  bleed. 
Sent  one  of  His  great  angels  down 
To  help  me  in  my  need. 

"He  who  is  wrapped  in  purple  robes, 
With  planets  in  His  care. 
Had  pity  on  the  least  of  things 
Asleep  upon  a  chair." 

William  Butler  Yeats. 


49 


Ballad  of  Douglas  Bridge 

QN  Douglas  Bridge  I  met  a  man 
Who  lived  adjacent  to  Strabane, 
Before  the  English  hung  him  high 

For  riding  with  O'Hanlon. 

The  eyes  of  him  were  just  as  fresh 

As    when    they   burned    within    the    flesh; 

And  his  boot-legs   were  wide  apart 
From   riding   with   O'Hanlon. 

"God    save    you,    Sir,"    I    said    with    fear, 
"You  seem  to  be  a  stranger  here." 
"Not  I,"  said  he,  "nor  any  man 
Who   rides   with   Count   O'Hanlon. 

"I  know  each  glen  from  North  Tyrone 
To  Monaghan,  and  IVe  been  known 
By  every  clan  and  parish,  since 
I  rode  with  Count  O'Hanlon." 

"Before  that  time,"  said  he  to  me, 
"My  fathers  owned  the  land  you  see; 

But  they  are  now  among  the  moors 
A-riding  with  O'Hanlon." 

"Before  that  time,"  said  he  with  pride, 
"My  fathers  rode  where  now  they  ride 

As  Rapparees,  before  the  time 
Of  trouble  and  O'Hanlon." 


50 


"Good  night  to  you,  and  God  be  with 
The  tellers  of  the  tale  and  myth, 

For  they  are  of  the  spirit-stuff 
That  rides  with  Count  O'Hanlon." 

"Good  night  to  you,"  said  I,  "and  God 
Be  with  the  chargers,  fairy-shod. 

That  bear  the  Ulster   heroes   forth 
To  ride  with  Count  O'Hanlon." 

On  Douglas  Bridge  we  parted,  but 
The  Gap  o'  Dreams  is  never  shut. 

To  one  whose  saddled  soul  to-night 
Rides  out  with  Count  O'Hanlon. 

Francis  Carlin. 
See  Note  Page  344. 


51 


The  White  Witch 

JJEAVEN  help  your  home  to-night, 

MacCormac;  for  I  know 
A  white  witch  woman  is  your  bride : 
You  married  for  your  woe. 

You  thought  her  but  a  simple  maid 
That  roamed  the  mountain-side; 
She  put  the  witch's  glance  on  you, 
And  so  became  your  bride. 

But  I  have  watched  her  close  and  long 
And  know  her  all  too  well; 
I  never  churned  before  her  glance 
But  evil  luck  befell. 

Last  week  the  cow  beneath  my  hand 
Gave  out  no  milk  at  all; 
I  turned,  and  saw  the  pale-haired  girl 
Lean  laughing  by  the  wall. 

"x\  little  sup,"  she  cried,  "for  me; 
The  day  is  hot  and  dry." 
"Begone !"  I  said,  "you  witch's  child," 
She  laughed  a  loud  good-bye. 

And  when  the  butter  in  the  churn 
Will  never  rise,  I  see 
Beside  the  door  the  white  witch  girl 
Has  got  her  eyes  on  me. 


52 


At  dawn  to-day  I  met  her  out 
Upon  the  mountain-side, 
And  all  her  slender  finger-tips 
Were  each  a  crimson  dyed. 

Now  I  had  gone  to  seek  a  lamb 
The  darkness  sent  astray: 
Sore  for  a  lamb  the  dawning  winds 
And  sharp-beaked  birds  of  prey. 

But  when  I  saw  the  white  witch  maid 
With  blood  upon  her  gown, 
I  said,  "I'm  poorer  by  a  lamb ; 
The  witch  has  dragged  it  down." 

And  "Why  is  this,  your  hands  so  red 
All  in  the  early  day?" 
I  seized  her  by  the  shoulder  fair, 
She  pulled  herself  away. 

"It  is  the  raddle  on  my  hands, 

The  raddle  all  so  red. 

For  I  have  marked  MacCormac's  sheep 

And  little  lambs,"  she  said. 

"And  what  is  this  upon  your  mouth 
And  on  your  cheek  so  white?" 
"Oh,  it  is  but  the  berries'  stain"; 
She  trembled  in  her  fright. 

"I  swear  it  is  no  berries'  stain, 
Nor  raddle  all  so  red;" 
I  laid  my  hands  about  her  throat, 
She  shook  me  off,  and  fled. 

I  had  not  gone  to  follow  her 

A  step  upon  the  way. 

When  came  I  to  my  own  lost  lamb. 

That  dead  and  bloody  lay. 


"Come  back,"  I  cried,  "you  witch's  child, 
Come  back  and  answer  me :" 
But  no  maid  on  the  mountain-side 
Could  ever  my  eyes  see. 

I  looked  into  the  glowing  east, 

I  looked  into  the  south. 

But  did  not  see  the  slim  young  witch, 

With  crimson  on  her  mouth. 

Now,  though  I  looked  both  well  and  long. 
And  saw  no  woman  there. 
Out  from  the  bushes  by  my  side 
There  crept  a  snow-white  hare. 

With  knife  in  hand,  I  followed  it 
By  ditch,  by  bog,  by  hill; 
I  said,  "Your  luck  be  in  your  feet, 
For  I  shall  do  you  ill. 

I  said,  "Come,  be  you  fox  or  hare. 
Or  be  you  mountain  maid, 
I'll  cut  the  witch's  heart  from  you. 
For  mischief  you  have  made." 

She  laid  her  spells  upon  my  path. 
The  brambles  held  and  tore. 
The  pebbles  slipped  beneath  my  feet. 
The  briars  wounded  sore. 

And  then  she  vanished  from  my  eyes 
Beside  MacCormac's  farm, 
I  ran  to  catch  her  in  the  house 
And  keep  the  man  from  harm. 

She  stood  with  him  beside  the  fire, 
And  when  she  saw  my  knife. 
She  flung  herself  upon  his  breast 
And  prayed  he'd  save  her  life. 


54 


"The  woman  is  a  witch,"  I  cried, 
"So  cast  her  off  from  you ;" 
"She'll  be  my  wife  to-day,"  he  said, 
"Be  careful  what  you  do !" 

"The  woman  is  a  witch,"  I  said; 
He  laughed  both  loud  and  long : 
She  laid  her  arms  about  his  neck. 
Her  laugh  was  like  a  song. 

"The  woman  is  a  witch,"  he  mocked. 
And  laughed  both  long  and  loud; 
She  bent  her  head  upon  his  breast, 
Her  hair  was  like  a  cloud. 

I  said,  "See  blood  upon  her  mouth 
And  on  each  finger  tip !" 
He  said,  "I  see  a  pretty  maid, 
A  rose  upon  her  lip." 

He  took  her  slender  hand  in  his 
To  kiss  the  stain  away — 
Oh,  well  she  cast  her  spell  on  him. 
What  could  I  do  but  pray? 

"May  heaven  guard  your  house  to-night !" 
I  whisper  as  I  go, 

"For  you  have  won  a  witch  for  bride. 
And  married   for  your  woe." 

Dora  Sigerson  Shorter. 


55 


The  Spinning  Wheel 

TiJ'ELLOW  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  beginning, 

Close  by  the  window  young  Eileen  is  spinning; 
Bent  over  the  fire  her  blind  grandmother,  sitting, 
Is  crooning,  and  moaning,  and  drowsily  knitting: — 
"Eileen,  achora,  I  hear  someone  tapping." 
"*Tis  the  ivy,  dear  mother,  against  the  glass  flapping." 
"Eily,  I  surely  hear  somebody  sighing." 

"Tis  the  sound,  mother  , dear,  of  the  summer  wind  dying." 
Merrily,  cheerily,  noiselessly  whirring. 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  wheel,  while  the  foot's  stirring; 
Sprightly,  and  brightly,  and  airily  ringing 
Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden  singing. 

'What's  that  noise  that  I  hear  at  the  window,  I  wonder?" 

"'Tis  the  little  birds  chirping  the  holly-bush  under." 

**What  makes  you  be  shoving  and  moving  your  stool  on, 

And  singing,  all  wrong,  that  old  song  of  The  Coolun'?" 

There's  a  form  at  the  casement — the  form  of  her  true  love — 

And  he  whispers,  with  face  bent,  "I'm  waiting  for  you,  love ; 

Get  up  on  the  stool,  through  the  lattice  step  lightly, 

We'll  rove  in  the  grove,  while  the  moon's  shining  brightly." 

Merrily,  cheerily,  noiselessly  whirring. 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  wheel,  while  the  foot's  stirring ; 

Sprightly,  and  brightly,  and  airily  ringing 

Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden  singing. 


56 


The  maid  shakes  her  head,  on  her  lips  lays  her  fingers, 
Steals  up  from  her  seat — longs  to  go,  and  yet  lingers; 
A  frightened  glance  turns  to  her  drowsy  grandmother. 
Puts  one  foot  on  the  stool,  spins  the  wheel  with,  the  other. 
Lazily,  easily,  swings  now  the  wheel  round. 
Slowly  and  lowly  is  heard  not  the  reel's  sound; 
Noiseless  and  light  to  the  lattice  above  her 
The  maid  steps — then  leaps  to  the  arms  of  her  lover. 
Slower — and  slower — and  slower  the  wheel  swings; 
Lower — and  lower — and  lower  the  reel  rings; 
Ere  the  reel  and  the  wheel  stopped  their  ringing  and  moving, 
Through  the  grove  the  young  lovers  by  moonlight  are  rov- 
ing. 

John  Francis  Waller. 


67 


Ringleted  Youth  of  My  Love 

J>  INGLETED  youth  of  my  love, 

With  thy  locks  bound  loosely  behind  thee, 
You  passed  by  the  road  above, 
But  you  never  came  in  to  find  me; 
Where  were  the  harm  for  you 
If  you  came  for  a  little  to  see  me, 
Your  kiss  is  a  wakening  dew 
Were  I  ever  so  ill  or  so  dreamy. 

If  I  had  golden  store 

I  would  make  a  nice  little  boreen. 

To  lead  straight  up  to  his  door. 

The  door  of  the  house  of  my  storeen; 

Hoping  to  God  not  to  miss 

The  sound  of  his  footfall  in  it, 

I  have  waited  so  long  for  his  kiss 

That  for  days  I  have  not  slept  a  minute. 

I  thought,  oh  my  love !  you  were  so — 
As  the  moon  is,  or  the  sun  on  a  fountain. 
And  I  thought  after  that  you  were  snow, 
The  cold  snow  on  the  top  of  the  mountain ; 
And  I  thought  after  that  you  were  more 
Like  God's  lamp  shining  to  find  me, 
Or  the  bright  star  of  knowledge  before, 
And  the  star  of  knowledge  behind  me. 


58 


You  promised  me  high-heeled  shoes, 
And  satin  and  silk,  my  storeen. 
And  to  follow  me,  never  to  lose, 
Though  the  ocean  were  round  us  roaring; 
Like  a  bush  in  a  gap  in  a  wall 
I  am  now  left  lonely  without  thee, 
And  this  house  I  grow  dead  of,  is  all 
That  I  see  around  or  about  me. 

Translated  by  Douglas  Hyde. 


59 


Do  You  Remember  That  Night? 

T\  O  YOU  remember  that  night 
That  you  were  at  the  window, 
With  neither  hat  nor  gloves, 
Nor  coat  to  shelter  you; 
I  reached  out  my  hand  to  you, 
And  you  ardently  grasped  it, 
And  I  remained  in  converse  with  you 
Until  the  lark  began  to  sing? 

Do  you  remember  that  night 
That  you  and  I  were 
At  the  ft)ot  of  the  rowan  tree. 
And  the  night  drifting  snow; 
Your  head  on  my  breast, 
And  your  pipe  sweetly  playing? 
I  little  thought  that  night 
Our  ties  of  love  would  ever  loosen. 

O  beloved  of  my  inmost  heart. 
Come  some  night,  and  soon. 
When  my  people  are  at  rest. 
That  we  may  talk  together; 
My  arms  shall  encircle  you. 
While  I  relate  my  sad  tale 
That  it  is  your  pleasant,  soft  converse 
That  has  deprived  me  of  heaven. 


60 


The  fire  is  unraked, 

The  light  extinguished, 
The  key  under  the  door, 
And  do  you  softly  draw  it. 
My  mother  is  asleep, 
And  I  am  quite  awake ; 
My  fortune  is  in  my  hand, 
And  I  am  ready  to  go  with  you. 
Translated   by   Eugene   O'Curry. 


61 


The  Song  of  the  Ghost 

"llJT'HEN  all  were  dreaming  but  Pastheen  Power, 

A  light  came  streaming  beneath  her  bower, 
A  heavy  foot  at  her  door  delayed, 
A  heavy  hand  on  the  latch  was  laid. 

"Now  who  dare  venture  at  this  dark  hour, 
Unbid  to  enter  my  maiden  bower?" 
"Dear  Pastheen,  open  the  door  to  me, 
And  your  true  lover  you'll  surely  see." 

"My  own  true  lover,  so  tall  and  brave. 
Lives  exiled  over  the  angry  wave." 
"Your  true  love's  body  lies  on  the  bier. 
His  faithful  spirit  is  with  you  here." 

"His  look  was  cheerful,  his  voice  was  gay: 
Your  speech  is  fearful,  your  voice  is  gray; 
And  sad  and  sunken  your  eye  of  blue, 
But  Patrick,  Patrick,  alas  'tis  you." 

Ere  dawn  was  breaking  she  heard  below 
The  two  cocks  shaking  their  wings  to  crow. 
"O  hush  you,  hush  you,  both  red  and  gray, 
Or  you  will  hurry  my  love  away." 


62 


"O  hush  your  crowing  both  gray  and  red 
Or  he'll  be  going  to  join  the  dead; 
O  cease  from  calling  his  ghost  to  the  mould, 
And  I'll  come  crowning  your  combs  with  gold.' 

When  all  were  dreaming  but  Pastheen  Power, 
A  light  went  streaming  from  out  her  bower. 
And  on  the  morrow  when  they  awoke, 
They  knew  that  sorrow  her  heart  had  broke. 
Alfred  Percival  Graves. 


63 


Lullaby 

COFTLY  now  the  burn  is  rushing, 
Every  lark  its  song  is  hushing, 

On  the  moor  thick  rest  is  falling, 

Just  one  heather-blade  is  calling — 

Calling,  calling,  lonely,  lonely, 

For  my  darling,  for  my  only, 
Leanbhain  0,  Leanbhain  0! 

Trotting  home,  my  dearie,  dearie. 
Wee  black  lamb  comes,  wearie,  wearie, 
Here  its  soft  feet  pit-a-patting 
Quickly  o'er  the  flowery  matting. 
See  its  brown-black  eyes  a-blinking — 
Of  its  bed  it's  surely  thinking, 
Leanbhain  0,  Leanbhain  O! 

The  hens  to  roost  wee  Nora's  shooing, 
Brindley  in  the  byre  is  mooing, 
The  tired-out  cricket's  quit  its  calling, 
Velvet  sleep  on  all   is   falling, — 
Lark  and  cow,  and  sheep  and  starling, — 
Feel  it  kiss   our  white-haired   darling, 
Leanbhain  0,  Leanbhain  O! 
Seumas  MacManus. 


64 


/  Lie  Down  With  God 

T   LIE  down  with  God,  and  may  God  lie  down  with  me; 

The  right  hand  of  God  under  my  head, 
The  two  hands  of  Mary  round  about  me, 
The  cross  of  the  nine  white  angels, 
From  the  back  of  my  head 
To  the  sole  of  my  feet. 
May  I  not  lie  with  evil, 
And  may  evil  not  lie  with  me. 
Anna,  mother  of  Mary, 
Mary,  mother  of  Christ, 
Elizabeth,  mother  of  John  Baptist, 
I  myself  beseech  these  three 
To  keep  the  couch  free  from  sickness. 
The  tree  on  which  Christ  suffered 

Be  between  me  and  the  heavy-lying  *, 

And  any  other  thing  that  seeks  my  harm. 

With  the  will  of  God  and  the  aid  of  the  glorious  Virgin. 

Translated  by  Eleanor  Hull. 
♦The  nightmare. 


65 


PART  II 

STREET  SONGS  AND  COUNTRYSIDE 
SONGS— MAINLY  ANONYMOUS 


Johnny,  I  Hardly  Knew  Ye 

"WTHILE  going  the  road  to  sweet  Athy, 

Hurroo !  hurroo ! 
While  going  the  road  to  sweet  Athy, 

Hurroo !  hurroo ! 
While  going  the  road  to  sweet  Athy, 
A  stick  in  my  hand  and  a  drop  in  my  eye, 
A  doleful  damsel  I  heard  cry: 
"Och,  Johnny.  I  hardly  knew  ye! 

"With  drums  and  guns,  and  guns  and  drums, 
The  enemy  nearly  slew  ye; 
My  darling  dear,  you  look  so  queer, 
Och,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye! 

'Where  are  your  eyes  that  looked  so  mild? 

Hurroo !  hurroo ! 
Where  are  your  eyes  that  looked  so  mild? 

Hurroo!  hurroo! 
Where  are  your  eyes  that  looked  so  mild. 
When  my  poor  heart  you  first  beguiled? 
Why  did  you  run  from  me  and  the  child? 
Och,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye! 
With  drums,  etc. 

**Where  are  the  legs  with  which  you  run? 

Hurroo !  hurroo ! 
Where  are  thy  legs  with  which  you  run? 

Hurroo!  hurroo! 


69 


Where  are  the  legs  with  which  you  run 
When  first  you  went  to  carry  a  gun? 
Indeed,  your  dancing  days  are  done! 
Och,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye! 
With  drums,  etc. 

It  grieved  my  heart  to  see  you  sail, 

Hurroo!  hurroo! 
It  grieved  my  heart  to  see  you  sail, 

Hurroo!  hurroo! 
It  grieved  my  heart  to  see  you  sail. 
Though  from  my  heart  you  took  leg-bail; 
Like  a  cod  you're  doubled  up  head  and  tail, 
Och,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye! 
With  drums,  etc. 

"You  haven't  an  arm  and  you  haven't  a  leg, 

Hurroo!  hurroo! 
You  haven't  an  arm  and  you  haven't  a  leg, 

Hurroo!  hurroo! 
You  haven't  an  arm  and  you  haven't  a  leg, 
You're  an  eyeless,  noseless,  chickenless  egg; 
You'll  have  to  be  put  with  a  bowl  to  beg: 
Och,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye! 
With  drums,  etc. 

"I'm  happy  for  to  see  you  home, 
Hurroo !  hurroo ! 
I'm  happy  for  to  see  you  home, 

Hurroo !  hurroo ! 
I'm  happy  for  to  see  you  home, 
All  from  the  Island  of  Sulloon ; 
So  low  in  flesh,  so  high  in  bone; 
Och,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye! 
With  drums,  etc. 

"But  sad  it  is  to  see  you  so, 

Hurroo!  hurroo! 
But  sad  it  is  to  see  you  so, 

Hurroo!  hurroo! 


70 


But  sad  it  is  to  see  you  so, 
And  to  think  of  you  now  as  an  object  of  woe, 
Your  Peggy'll  still  keep  you  on  as  her  beau; 
Och,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye ! 

With  drums  and  guns,  and  guns  and  drums, 
The  enemy  nearjy  slew  ye; 
My  darling  dear,  you  look  so  queer, 
Och,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye. 


71 


Nell  Flaherty's  Drake 

]U[Y  NAME  it  IS  Nell,  right  candid  I  tell, 

And  I  live  near  a  dell  I  ne*er  will  deny, 
I  had  a  large  drake,  the  truth  for  to  spake, 

My  grandfather  left  me  when  going  to  die ; 
He  was  merry  and  sound,  and  would  weigh  twenty  pound, 

The  universe  round  would  I  rove  for  his  sake. 
Bad  luck  to  the  robber,  be  he  drunken  or  sober. 

That  murdered  Nell  Flaherty's  beautiful  drake. 

His  neck  it  was  green,  and  rare  to  be  seen. 

He  was  fit  for  a  queen  of  the  highest  degree. 
His  body  so  white,  it  would  you  delight, 

He  was  fat,  plump,  and  heavy,  and  brisk  as  a  bee. 
This  dear  little  fellow,  his  legs  they  were  yellow, 

He  could  fly  like  a  swallow,  or  swim  like  a  hake, 
But  some  wicked  habbage,  to  grease  his  white  cabbage. 

Has  murdered  Nell  Flaherty's  beautiful  drake! 

May  his  pig  never  grunt,  may  his  cat  never  hunt, 

That  a  ghost  may  him  haunt  in  the  dark  of  the  night. 
May  his  hens  never  lay,  may  his  horse  never  neigh, 

May  his  goat  fly  ^way  like  an  old  paper  kite; 
May  his  duck  never  quack,  may  his  goose  be  turned  black 

And  pull  down  his  stack  with  her  long  yellow  beak. 
May  the  scurvy  and  itch  never  part  from  the  britch 

Of  the  wretch  that  murdered  Nell  Flaherty's  drake  I 


72 


May  his  rooster  ne*er  crow,  may  his  bellows  not  blow, 

Nor  potatoes  to  grow — may  he  never  have  none — • 
May  his  cradle  not  rock,  may  his  chest  have  no  lock, 

May  his  wife  have  no  frock  for  to  shade  her  backbone. 
That  the  bugs  and  the  fleas  may  this  wicked  wretch  tease. 

And  a  piercing  north  breeze  make  him  tremble  and  shake. 
May  a  four-years*-old  bug  build  a  nest  in  the  lug 

Of  the  monster  that  murdered  Nell  Flaherty's  drake. 

May  his  pipe  never  smoke,  may  his  tea-pot  be  broke. 

And  to  add  to  the  joke  may  his  kettle  not  boil; 
May  he  be  poorly  fed  till  the  hour  he  is  dead. 

May  he  always  be  fed  on  lobscouse  and  fish  oil. 
May  he  swell  with  the  gout  till  his  grinders  fall  out. 

May  he  roar,  howl,  and  shout  with  a  horrid  toothache, 
May  his  temple  wear  horns  and  his  toes  carry  corns. 

The  wretch  that  murdered  Nell  Flaherty's  drake. 

May  his  dog  yelp  and  howl  with  both  hunger  and  cold, 

May  his  wife  always  scold  till  his  brains  go  astray. 
May  the  curse  of  each  hag,  that  ever  carried  a  bag. 

Light  down  on  the  wag  till  his  head  it  turns  gray. 
May  monkeys  still  bite  him,  and  mad  dogs  affright  him. 

And  every  one  slight  him,  asleep  or  awake. 
May  wasps  ever  gnaw  him,  and  jackdaws  ever  claw  him, 

The  monster  that  murdered  Nell  Flaherty's  drake. 

But  the  only  good  news  I  have  to  diffuse. 

Is  of  Peter  Hughes  and  Paddy  McCade, 
And  crooked  Ned  Manson,  and  big-nosed  Bob  Hanson, 

Each  one  had  a  grandson  of  my  beautiful  drake. 
Oh !  my  bird  he  has  dozens  of  nephews  and  cousins, 

And  one  I  must  have,  or  my  heart  it  will  break. 
To  keep  my  mind  easy,  or  else  I'll  run  crazy, 

And  so  ends  the  song  of  my  beautiful  drake. 


73 


Allalu  Mo  Wauleen 

(The  Beggar's  Address  to  His  Bag) 

/^OOD  neighbors,  dear,  be  cautious. 

And  covet  no  man's  pounds  or  pence. 
Ambition's  greedy  maw  shun, 
And  tread  the  path  of  innocence ! 
Dread  crooked  ways  and  cheating. 
And  be  not  like  those  hounds  of  Hell, 
Like  prowling  wolves  awaiting, 
Which  once  upon  my  footsteps  fell. 

An  allalu  mo  wauleen. 

My  little  bag  I  treasured  it; 

'Twas  stuffed   from  string  to  sauleen, 

A  thousand  times  I  measured  it! 

Should  you  ever  reach  Dungarvan, 

That  wretched  hole  of  dole  and  sin, 

Be  on  your  sharpest  guard,  man, 

Or  the  eyes  out  of  your  head  they'll  pin. 

Since  I  left  sweet  Tipperary, 

They  eased  me  of  my  cherished  load, 

And  left  me  light  and  airy, 

A  poor  dark  man  upon  the  road! 

An  allalu  mo  wauleen! 
No  hole,  no  stitch,  no  rent  in  it, 
'Twas  stuffed  from  string  to  sauleen, 
My  half-year's  rent  was  pent  in  it. 


74 


A  gay  gold  ring  unbroken, 

A  token  to  a  fair  young  maid, 

Which  told  of  love  unspoken. 

To  one  whose  hopes  were  long  delayed, 

A  pair  of  woolen  hoseen, 

Close  knitted,  without  rub  or  seam, 

And  a  pound  of  weed  well-chosen. 

Such  as  smokers  taste  in  dream! 

An  allalu  mo  wauleen. 

Such  a  store  I  had  in  it; 

'Twas  stuffed  from  string  to  sauleen, 

And  nothing  mean  or  bad  in  it! 

Full  oft  in  cosy  corner 
We'd  sit  beside  a  winter  fire. 
Nor  envied  prince  or  lord,  or 
To  kingly  rank  did  we  aspire. 
But  twice  they  overhauled  us, 
The  dark  police  of  aspect  dire, 
Because  they  feared.  Mo  Chairdeas, 
You  held  the  dreaded  Fenian  fire! 

An  allalu  mo  wauleen, 
My  bag  and  me  they  sundered  us, 
'Twas  stuffed  from  string  to  sauleen, 
My  bag  of  bags  they  sundered  us ! 

Yourself  and  I,  mo  storeen, 
At  every  hour  of  night  and  day. 
Through  road  and  lane  and  bohreen 
Without  complaint  we  made  our  way. 
Till  one  sore  day  a  carman 
In  pity  took  us  from  the  road. 
And  faced  us  towards  Dungarvan 
Where  mortal  sin  hath  firm  abode. 


75 


An  allalu  mo  wauleen, 
Without  a  hole  or  rent  in  it, 
*Twas  stuffed  from  string  to  sauleen, 
My  half-year's  rent  was  pent  in  itl 

My  curses  attend  Dungarvan, 

Her  boats,  her  borough,  and  her  fish, 

May  every  woe  that  mars  man 

Come  dancing  down  upon  her  dish! 

For  all  the  rogues  behind  you, 

From  Slaney's  bank  to  Shannon's  tide, 

Are  but  poor  scholars,  mind  you, 

To  the  rogues  you'd  meet  in  Abbeysidel 

An  allalu  mo  wauleen. 
My  little  bag  I  treasured  it, 
'Twas  stuffed  from  string  to  sauleen, 
A  thousand  times  I  measured  it! 
See  Note  Page  345. 


76 


The  Maid  of  the  Sweet  Brown  Knowe 

/^OME  all  ye  lads  and  lassies  and  listen  to  me  a  while. 

And  I'll  sing  for  you  a  verse  or  two  will  cause  you  all 
to  smile; 
It's  all  about  a  young  man,  and  Fm  going  to  tell  you  now, 
How  he  lately  came  a-courting  of  the  Maid  of  the  Sweet 
Brown  Knowe. 

Said  he,  "My  pretty  fair  maid,  will  you  come  along  with  me, 

We'll  both  go  off  together,  and  married  we  will  be; 

We'll  join  our  hands  in  wedlock  bands,  I'm  speaking  to  you 

now, 
And  I'll  do  my  best  endeavour  for  the  Maid  of  the  Sweet 

Brown  Knowe." 

This  fair  and  fickle  young  thing,  she  knew  not  what  to  say, 
Her  eyes  did  shine  like  silver  bright  and  merrily  did  play; 
She  said,  "Young  man,  your  love  subdue,  for  I  am  not  ready 

now, 
And   I'll   spend   another   season   at  the   foot   of   the   Sweet 

Brown  Knowe. 

Said  he,  "My  pretty  fair  maid,  how  can  you  say  so. 
Look  down  in  yonder  valley  where  my  crops  do  gently  grow, 
Look  down  in  yonder  valley  where  my  horses  and  my  plough 
Are  at  their  daily  labour  for  the  Maid  of  the  Sweet  Brown 
Knowe." 


77 


"If  theyVe  at  their  daily  labour,  kind  sir,  it's  not  for  me, 
For  IVe  heard  of  your  behaviour,  I  have,  indeed,"  she  said; 
"There  is  an  Inn  where  you  call  in,  I  have  heard  the  people 

say, 
Where  you  rap  and  call  and  pay  for  all,  and  go  home  at  the 

break  of  day." 

"If  I  rap  and  call  and  pay  for  all,  the  money  is  all  my  own, 
And  ril  never  spend  your  fortune,  for  I  hear  you  have  got 

none. 
You  thought  you  had  my  poor  heart  broke  in  talking  with 

me  now, 
But  ril  leave  you  where  I  found  you,  at  the  foot  of  the  Sweet 

Brown  Knowe." 


78 


/  Know  My  Love 

¥  KNOW  my  Love  by  his  way  of  walking:, 

And  I  know  my  love  by  his  way  of  talking, 
And  I  know  my  love  dressed  in  a  suit  of  blue, 
And  if  my  Love  leaves  me,  what  will  I  do? 

And  still  she  cried,  "I  love  him  the  best, 
And  a  troubled  mind,  sure,  can  know  no  rest," 
And  still  she  cried,  "Bonny  boys  are  few. 
And  if  my  Love  leaves  me,  what  will  I  do?" 

There  is  a  dance  house  in  Mar'dyke, 
And  there  my  true  love  goes  every  night; 
He  takes  a  strange  one  upon  his  knee. 
And  don't  you  think,  now,  that  vexes  me? 

And  still  she  cried,  "I  love  him  the  best. 
And  a  troubled  mind,  sure,  can  know  no  rest," 
And  still  she  cried,  "Bonny  boys  are  few, 
And  if  my  Love  leaves  me,  what  will  I  do  ?" 

If  my  Love  knew  I  could  wash  and  wring, 
If  my  Love  knew  I  could  weave  and  spin, 
I  would  make  a  dress  all  of  the  finest  kind, 
But  the  want  of  money,  sure,  leaves  me  behind. 

And  still  she  cried,  "I  love  him  the  best. 
And  a  troubled  mind,  sure,  can  know  no  rest," 
And  still  she  cried,  "Bonny  boys  are  few. 
And  if  my  Love  leaves  me,  what  will  I  do?" 

I  know  my  Love  is  an  arrant  rover, 

I  know  he'll  wander  the  wide  world  over. 


79 


In  dear  old  Ireland  he'll  no  longer  tarry, 
And  an  English  one  he  is  sure  to  marry. 

And  still  she  cried,  "I  love  him  the  best. 
And  a  troubled  mind,  sure,  can  know  no  rest," 
And  still  she  cried,  "Bonny  boys  are  few. 
And  if  my  Love  leaves  me,  what  will  I  do  ?" 


80 


The  Lambs  on  the  Green  Hills  Stood  Gazing 
on  Me 

T^HE  lambs  on  the  green  hills  stood  gazing  on  me. 
And  many  strawberries  grew  round  the  salt  sea, 
And  many  strawberries  grew  round  the  salt  sea, 
And  many  a  ship  sailed  the  ocean. 

And  bride  and  bride's  party  to  church  they  did  go, 
The  bride  she  rode  foremost,  she  bears  the  best  show. 
But  I  followed  after  with  my  heart  full  of  woe. 
To  see  my  love  wed  to  another. 

The  first  place  I  saw  her  'twas  in  the  church  stand. 
Gold  rings  on  her  finger  and  love  by  the  hand. 
Says  I,  "My  wee  lassie,  I  will  be  the  man 
Although  you  are  wed  to  another." 

The  next  place  I  saw  her  was  on  the  way  home, 
I  ran  on  before  her,  not  knowing  where  to  roam. 
Says  I,  "My  wee  lassie,  I'll  be  by  your  side 
Although  you  are  wed  to  another." 

The  next  place  I  saw  her  'twas  laid  in  bride's  bed, 
I  jumped  in  beside  her  and  did  kiss  the  bride; 
"Stop,  stop,"  said  the  groomsman,  "till  I  speak  a  word, 
Will  you  venture  your  life  on  the  point  of  my  sword? 
For  courting  so  slowly  you've  lost  this  fair  maid, 
So  begone,  for  you'll  never  enjoy  hen" 


81 


Oh,  make  my  grave  then  both  large,  wide  and  deep, 
And  sprinkle  it  over  with  flowers  so  sweet, 
And  lay  me  down  in  it  to  take  my  last  sleep, 
For  that's  the  best  way  to  forget  her. 


82 


My  Love  Is  Like  the  Sun 

'T'HE  winter  is  past, 

And  the  summer's  come  at  last 
And  the  blackbirds  sing  in  every  tree; 

The  hearts  of  these  are  glad 

But  my  poor  heart  is  sad, 
Since  my  true  love  is  absent  from  me. 

The  rose  upon  the  briar 

By  the  water  running  clear 
Gives  joy  to  the  linnet  and  the  bee; 

Their  little  hearts  are  blest 

But  mine  is  not  at  rest, 
While  my  true  love  is  absent  from  me. 

A  livery  Til  wear 

And  I'll  comb  out  my  hair, 

And  in  velvet  so  green  I'll  appear, 
And  straight  I  will  repair 
To  the  Curragh  of  Kildare 

For  it's  there  I'll  find  tidings  of  my  dear. 

I'll  wear  a  cap  of  black 

With  a  frill  around  my  neck, 
Gold  rings  on  my  fingers  I'll  wear: 

All  this  I'll  undertake 

For  my  true  lover's  sake, 
He  resides  at  the  Curragh  of  Kildare. 


I  would  not  think  it  strange 

Thus  the  world  for  to  range, 
If  I  only  get  tidings  of  my  dear; 

But  here  in  Cupid's  chain 

If  I'm  bound  to  remain, 
I  would  spend  my  whole  life  in  despair. 

My  love  is  like  the  sun 

That  in  the  firmament  does  run, 

And  always  proves  constant  and  true; 
But  he  is  like  the  moon 
That  wanders  up  and  down, 

And  every  month  is  new. 

All  ye  that  are  in  love 

And  cannot  it  remove, 
I  pity  the  pains  you  endure; 

For  experience  lets  me  know 

That  your  hearts  are  full  of  woe. 
And  a  woe  that  no  mortal  can  cure. 
See  Note  Page  345. 


84 


The  Nobleman's  Wedding 

/^NCE  I  was  at  a  nobleman's  wedding — 

'Twas  of  a  girl  that  proved  unkind, 
But  now  she  begins  to  think  of  her  losses 
Her  former  true  lover  still  runs   in  her  mind. 

"Here  is  the  token  of  gold  that  was  broken, 
Seven  long  years,  love,  I  have  kept  it  for  your  sake 
You  gave  to  me  as  a  true  lover's  token, 
No  longer  with  me,  love,  it  shall  remain." 

The  bride  she  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
The  words  he  said  she  marked  them  right  well; 
To  sit  any  longer  she  was  not  able. 
And  down  at  the  bridegroom's  feet  she  fell. 

"One  request  I  do  make  of  you 

And  I  hope  you  will  grant  it  to  me. 

To  lie  this  night  in  the  arms  of  my  mother. 

And  ever  after  to  lie  with  thee." 

No  sooner  asked  than  it  was  granted, 

With  tears  in  her  eyes  she  went  to  bed, 

And   early,   early,   the   very  next  morning 

He  rose  and  found  that  this  young  bride  was  dead. 

He  took  her  up  in  his  arms  so  softly. 

And  carried  her  to  the  meadow  so  green. 

And  covered  her  over  with  green  leaves  and  laurels, 

Thinking  she  might  come  to  life  again. 


85 


Johnny's  the  Lad  I  Love 

A  S  I  roved  out  on  a  May  morning, 

Being  in  the  youthful  spring, 
I  leaned  my  back  close  to  the  garden  wall. 
To  hear  the  small  birds  sing. 

And  to  hear  two  lovers  talk,  my  dear, 
To  know  what  they  would  say. 
That  I  might  know  a  little  of  her  mind 
Before  I  would  go  away. 

"Come  sit  you  down,  my  heart,"  he  says, 
"All  on  this  pleasant  green, 
It*s  full  three-quarters  of  a  year  and  more 
Since  together  you  and  I  have  been." 

"I  will  not  sit  on  the  grass,"  she  said, 
"Now  nor  any  other  time. 

For  I  hear  you're  ^engaged  with  another  maid, 
And  your  heart  is  no  more  of  mine. 

"Oh,  I'll  not  believe  what  an  old  man  says. 
For  his  days  are  well  nigh  done. 
Kor  will  I  believe  what  a  young  man  says, 
For  he's  fair  to  many  a  one. 

"But  I  will  climb  a  high,  high  tree, 
And  rob  a  wild  bird's  nest. 
And  I'll  bring  back  whatever  I  do  find 
To  the  arms  I  love  the  best,"  she  said, 
"To  the  arms  I  love  the  best." 


86 


/  Know  Where  Vm  Going 

J  KNOW  where  I'm  going, 

I    know    who's    going    with    me, 
I  know  who  I  love. 
But  the  dear  knows  who  I'll  marry. 

ni  have  stockings  of  silk, 
Shoes  of  fine  green  leather, 
Combs  to  buckle  my  hair 
And  a  ring  for  every  finger. 

Feather  beds  are  soft, 
Painted  rooms  are  bonny; 
But  I'd  leave  them  all 
To  go  with  my  love  Johnny. 

Some  say  he's  dark, 

I  say  he's  bonny, 

He's  the  flower  of  them  all 

My  handsome,   coaxing  Johnny. 

I  know  where  I'm  going, 

I  know  who's  going  with  me, 

I  know  who  I  love, 

But  the  dear  knows  who  I'll  marry. 


87 


The  Streams  of  Bunclody 

C\  H,  WERE  I  at  the  moss-house  where  the  birds  do  increase, 

At  the  foot  of  Mount  Leinster  or  some  silent  place 
Near  the  streams  of  Bunclody  where  all  pleasures  do  meet, 
And  all  Fd  require  is  one  kiss  from  you,  ^weet. 

If  I  was  in  Bunclody  I  would  think  myself  at  home, 
'Tis  there  I  would  have  a  sweetheart,  but  here  I  have  none. 
Drinking  strong  liquor  in  the  height  of  my  cheer — 
Here's  a  health  to  Bunclody  and  the  lass  I  love  dear. 

The  cuckoo  is  a  pretty  bird,  it  sings  as  it  flies. 

It  brings  us  good  tidings  and  tells  us  no  lies. 

It  sucks  the  young  bird's  eggs  to  make  its  voice  clear. 

And  It  never  cries  cuckoo  till  the  summer  is  near. 

If  I  was  a  clerk  and  could  write  a  good  hand, 

I  would  write  to  my  true  love  that  she  might  understand, 

I  am  a  young  fellow  that  is  wounded  in  love. 

That  lived  by  Bunclody,  but  now  must  remove. 

If  I  was  a  lark  and  had  wings,  I  then  could  fly, 
I  would  go  to  yon  arbour  where  my  love  she  doth  lie, 
Fd  proceed  to  yon  arbour  where  my  love  she  does  lie, 
And  on  her  fond  bosom  contented  I  would  die. 

The  reason  my  love  slights  me,  as  you  may  understand, 
Because  she  has  a  freehold,  and  I  have  no  land, 
She  has  a  great  store  of  riches  and  a  large  sum  of  gold. 
And  everything  fitting  a  house  to  uphold. 

So,  adieu,  my  dear  father,  adieu,  my  dear  mother. 
Farewell  to  my  sister,  farewell  to  my  brother ; 
Fm  going  to  America,  my  fortune  for  to  try; 
When  I  think  upon  Bunclody,  Fm  ready  for  to  die! 

88 


Lovely  Mary  Donnelly 

/^H,  LOVELY  Mary  Donnelly,  my  joy,  my  only  best 

If  fifty  girls  were  round  you,  I'd  hardly  see  the  rest; 
Be  what  it  may  the  time  o'  day,  the  place  be  where  it  will 
Sweet  looks  o'  Mary  Donnelly,  they  bloom  before  me  still. 

Her  eyes  like  mountain  water  thaf  s  flowing  on  a  rock. 
How  clear  they  are,  how  dark  they  are !  they  give  me  many  a 

shock. 
Red  rowans  warm  in  sunshine  and  wetted  with  a  shower, 
Could   ne'er   express   the  charming  lip   that   has   me   in   its 

power. 

Her  nose  is  straight  and  handsome,  her  eyebrows  lifted  up, 
Her  chin  is  very  neat  and  pert,  and  smooth  like  a  china  cup, 
Her  hair's  the  brag  of  Ireland,  so  weighty  and  so  fine ; 
It's  rolling  down  upon  her  neck,  and  gathered  in  a  twine. 

The  dance  o'  last  Whit-Monday  night  exceeded  all  before, 
No  pretty  girl  from  miles  about  was  missing  from  the  floor ; 
But  Mary  kept  the;  belt  of  love,  and  O  but  she  was  gay! 
She  danced  a  jig,  she  sung  a  song,  that  took  my  heart  away. 

When  she  stood  up  for  dancing,  her  steps  were  so  complete, 

The  music  nearly  killed  itself  to  listen  to  her  feet; 

The  fiddler  mourned  his  blindness,  he  heard  her   so  much 

praised. 
But  blessed  his  luck  not  to  be  deaf  when  once  her  voice  she 

raised. 


89 


And  evermore  I'm  v/histHng  or  lilting  what  you  sunj?, 
Your   smile   is   always   in   my  heart,   your   name  beside   my 

tongue ; 
But  youVe  as  many  sweethearts  as  you'd  count  on  both  your 

hands, 
And  for  myself  there's  not  a  thumb  or  little  finger  stands. 

Oh,  you're  the  flower  o'  womankind  in  country  or  in  town; 

The  higher  I  exalt  you,  the  lower  I'm  cast  down. 

If  some  great  lord  should  come  this  way,  and  see  your  beauty 

bright. 
And  you  to  be  his  lady,  I'd  own  it  was  but  right. 

Oh,  might  we  live  together  in  a  lofty  palace  hall, 
Where  joyful  music  rises,  and  where  scarlet  curtains  fall! 
Oh,  might  we  live  together  in  a  cottage  mean  and  small. 
With  sods  or  grass  the  only  roof,  and  mud  the  only  wall! 

O  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  your  beauty's  my  distress. 

It's  far  too  beauteous  to  be  mine,  but  I'll  never  wish  it  less. 

The  proudest  place  would  fit  your  face,  and  I  am  poor  and 

low 
But  blessings  be  about  you,  dear,  wherever  you  may  go. 

William  Allingham. 


90 


Draherin  O  Machree 

T   GRIEVE  when   I  think  on  the   dear  happy  days   of  my 

youth, 
When  all  the  bright  dreams  of  this   faithless  world  seem'd 

truth ; 
When  I  stray'd  thro'  the  green  wood,  as  gay  as  a  mid-summer 

bee. 
In  brotherly  love  with  my  Draherin  O  Machree ! 

Together  we  lay  in  the  sweet-scented  meadows  to  rest, 
Together  we  watch'd  the  gay  lark  as  he  sung  o'er  his  nest, 
Together  we  plucked  the  red  fruit  of  the  fragrant  hawthorn 

tree, 
And  I  loved  as  a  sweetheart,  my  Draherin  O  Machree ! 

His  form  was  straight  as  a  hazel  that  grows  in  the  glen. 
His  manners   were  courteous,  and  social,  and  gay  amongst 

men; 
His  bosom  was  white  as  the  lily  on  summer's  green  lea — 
He's  God's  brightest  image  was  Draherin  O  Machree ! 

Oh  I  sweet  were  his  words  as  the  honey  that  falls  in  the 

night, 
And  his  young  smiling  face  like  the  May-bloom  was  fresh, 

and  as  bright; 
His  eyes  were  like  dew  on  the  flower  of  the  sweet  apple 

tree ; 
My  heart's  spring  and  summer  was  Draherin  O  Machree^ 


91 


He  went  to  the  wars  when  proud  England  united  with  France ; 
His  regiment  was  first  in  the  red  battle-charge  to  advance; 
But  when  night  drew  its  veil  o'er  the  gory  and  life- wasting 

fray. 
Pale,  bleeding,  and  cold  lay  my  Draherin  O  Machree ! 

Now  Fm  left  to  weep,  like  the  sorrowful  bird  of  the  night; 
This  earth  and  its  pleasures  no  more  shall  afford  me  delight* 
The  dark,  narrow  grave  is  the  only  sad  refuge  for  me. 
Since  I  lost  my  heart's  darling — my  Draherin  O  Machree! 
See  Note  Page  345. 


92 


A  Complete  Account  of  the  Various  Colonizations 
of  Ireland  as  Delivered  by  the  Sage  Fintan     , 

CHOULD  any  enquire  about  Eirinn, 
It  IS  I  who  can  tell  him  the  truth, 
Concerning  the  deeds  of  each  daring 
Invader,  since  Time  was  a  youth. 

First  Cassir,  Bith's  venturesome  daughter, 
Came  here  o*er  the  Eastern  Sea; 
And  fifty  fair  damsels  she  brought  her — 
To  solace  her  warriors  three. 

Bith  died  at  the  foot  of  his  mountain, 
And  Ladra  on  top  of  his  height; 
And  Cassir  by  Boyle's  limpid  fountain. 
Ere  rushed  down  the  Flood  in  its  might. 

For  a  year,  while  the  waters  encumber 
The  Earth,  at  Tul-Tunna  of  strength, 
I  slept,  none  enjoyed  such  sweet  slumber 
As  that  which  I  woke  from  at  length. 

When  Partholan  came  to  the  island. 
From  Greece,  in  the  Eastern  land, 
I  welcomed  him  gaily  to  my  land, 
And  feasted  the  whole  of  his  band. 

Again,  when  Death  seized  on  the  strangers, 
I  roamed  the  land,  merry  and  free, 
Both  careless  and  fearless  of  dangers, 
Till  blithe  Nemid  came  o'er  the  sea. 


93 


The  Firbolgs  and  roving  Fir-Gallians, 
Came  next  like  the  waves  in  their  flow; 
The  Fir-Dennans  arrived  in  battalions, 
And  landed  in  Erris — Mayo. 

Then  came  the  wise  Tuatha-de-Danann, 
Concealed  in  black  clouds  from  their  foe ; 
I  feasted  with  them  near  the  Shannon, 
Though  that  was  a  long  time  ago. 

After  them  came  the  Children  of  Mile, 
From  Spain,  o'er  the  Southern  waves : 
I  lived  with  the  tribes  as  their  Filea 
And  chanted  the  deeds  of  their  braves. 

Time  ne'er  my  existence  could  wither, 
From  Death's  grasp  I  always  was  freed: 
Till  Patrick,  the  Christian,  came  hither 
To  spread  the  Redeemer's  pure  creed. 

My  name  it  is  Fintan,  the  Fair-man, 
Of  Bochra,  the  son,  you  must  know  it; 
I  lived  through  the  Flood  in  my  lair,  man, 
I  am  now  an  illustrious  poet. 


04 


The  Boyne  Water 

TULY  the  first,  of  a  morning  clear,  one  thousand  six  hun- 
dred and  ninety, 

King  William  did  his  men  prepare — of  thousands  he  had 
thirty— 

To  fight  King  James  and  all  his  foes,  encamped  near  the 
Boyne  Water; 

He  little  feared,  though  two  to  one*  their  multitude  to  scat- 
ter. 

King  William  called  his  officers,  saying:  "Gentlemen,  mind 

your  station. 
And  let  your  valour  here  be  shown  before  this  Irish  nation; 
My  brazen  walls  let  no  man  break,  and  your  subtle  foes  you'll 

scatter. 
Be  sure  you  show  them  good  English  play  as  you  go  over 

the  water." 

Both  foot  and  horse  they  marched  on,  intending  them  to 
batter. 

But  the  brave  Duke  Schomberg  he  was  shot  as  he  crossed 
over  the  water. 

When  that  King  William  did  observe  the  brave  Duke  Schom- 
berg falling. 

He  reined  his  horse  with  a  heavy  heart,  on  the  Enniskillenes 
calling  : 


95 


**What  will  you  do  for  me,  brave  boys — see  yonder  men  re- 
treating ? 

Our  enemies  encouraged  are,  and  English  drums  are  beating." 

He  says,  "My  boys  feel  no  dismay  at  the  losing  of  one  com- 
mander. 

For  God  shall  be  our  King  this  day,  and  I'll  be  general 
under." 

Within  four  yards  of  our  fore-front,  before  a  shot  was  fired, 
A  sudden  snuff  they  got  that  day,  which  little  they  desired; 
For  horse  and  man  fell  to  the  ground,  and  some  hung  on 

their  saddle: 
Others  turned  up  their  forked  ends,  which  we  call  coup  de 

ladle. 

Prince  Eugene's  regiment  was  the  next,  on  our  right  hand 

advanced 
Into  a  field  of  standing  wheat,  where  Irish  horses  pranced; 
But  the  brandy  ran  so  in  their  heads,  their  senses  all  did 

scatter. 
They  little  thought  to  leave  their  bones  that  day  at  the  Boyne 

Water. 

Both  men  and  horse  lay  on  the  ground,  and  many  there  lay 

bleeding, 
I  saw  no  sickles  there  that  day— but,  sure,  there  was  sharp 

shearing. 
Now,  praise  God,  all  true  Protestants,  and  heaven's  and  earth's 

Creator, 
For  the  deliverance  he  sent  our  enemies  to  scatter. 
The  Church's  foes  will  pine  away,  like  churlish-hearted  Nabal, 
For  our  deliverer  came  this  day  like  the  great  Zorobabal. 


96 


So  praise  God,  all  true  Protestants,  and  I  will  say  no  further, 

But  had  the  Papists  gained  that  day,  there  would  have  been 
open  murder. 

Although  King  James  and  many  more  were  ne*er  that  way 
inclined, 

It  was  not  in  their  power  to  stop  what  the  rabble  they  de- 
signed. 

See  Note  Page  345. 


97 


The  Shan  Van  Vocht 

f\  H !  the  French  are  on  the  say, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht; 
The  French  are  on  the  say, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht; 
Oh !  the  French  are  in  the  Bay, 
They'll  be  here  without  delay, 
And  the  Orange  will  decay. 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
Oh !  the  French  are  in  the  Bay, 
They'll  be  here  by  break  of  day 
And  the  Orange  will  decay. 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

And  where  will  they  have  their  camp? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht; 
Where  will  they  have  their  camp? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht; 
On  the  Curragh  of  Kildare, 
The  boys  they  will  be  there. 
With  their  pikes  in  good  repair. 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
To  the  Curragh  of  Kildare 
The  boys  they  will  repair 
And  Lord  Edward  will  be  there. 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 


98 


Then  what  will  the  yeomen  do? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht; 
What  should  the  yeomen  do, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht; 
What  should  the  yeomen  do, 
But  throw  off  the  red  and  blue, 
And  swear  that  they'll  be  true 

To  the   Shan  Van  Vocht? 
What  should  the  yeomen  do, 

But  throw  off  the  red  and  blue, 
And   swear  that  they'll  be   true 

To  the  Shan  Van  Vocht? 

And  what  colour  will  they  wear? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht; 
What  colour  will  they  wear? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht; 
What  colours  should  be  seen 
Where  their  father's  homes  have  been 
But  their  own  immortal  green? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

And  will  Ireland  then  be  free? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht; 
Will  Ireland  then  be  free? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht; 
Yes !  Ireland  shall  be  free. 
From  the  centre  to  the  sea; 
Then  hurrah   for  Liberty! 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht 
Yes !  Ireland  shall  be  free. 
From  the  centre  to  the  sea; 
Then  hurrah   for  Liberty! 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht 
See  Note  Page  345. 


99 


The  Wearin*  o'  the  Green 

QH,  Paddy  dear!  and  did  ye  hear  the  news  that's  goin' 

round  ? 
The  shamrock  is  forbid  by  law  to  grow  on  Irish  ground ! 
No  more  St.   Patrick's  day  we'll  keep;  his  colour  can't  be 

seen, 
For  there's  a  cruel  law  ag'in'  the  Wearin'  o'  the  Green! 

I  met  with  Napper  Tandy,  and  he  took  me  by  the  hand, 
And  he  said,  "How's  poor  ould  Ireland,  and  how  does  she 

stand?" 
"She's  the  most  distressful  country  that  ever  yet  was  seen, 
For  they're  hanging  men  and  women  there  for  the  Wearin' 

o'  the  Green. 

An'  if  the  colour  we  must  wear  is  England's  cruel  red, 

Let  it  remind  us  of  the  blood  that  Ireland  has  shed; 

Then  pull  the  shamrock  from  your  hat,  and  throw  it  on  the 

sod, 
An'  never  fear,  'twill  take  root  there,  though  under  foot  'tis 

trod. 

When  law  can  stop  the  blades  of  grass  from  growin'  as  they 

grow. 
An'  when  the  leaves  in  summer  time  their  colour  dare  not 

show. 
Then  I  will  change  the  colour,  too,  I  wear  in  my  caubeen ; 
But  till  that  day,  plaise  God,  I'll  stick  to  the  Wearin'  o'  the 

Green. 


100 


The  Rising  of  the  Moon 

"QH,  THEN  tell  me,  Shawn  O'Farrall. 

Tell  me  why  you  hurry  so?" 
"Hush,  ma  bouchal,  hush  and  listen;" 
And  his  cheeks  were  all  a-glow: 
"I  bear  orders  from  the  Captain — 
Get  you  ready  quick  and  soon; 
For  the  pikes  must  be  together 
At  the  Rising  of  the  Moon." 

"Oh,  then  tell  me,  Shmwn  OTarrall 
Where  the  gathering  is  to  be?" 
"In  the  our  spot  by  the  river 
Right  well  known  to  you  and  me ; 
One  word  more — for  signal  token 
Whistle  up  the  marching  tune, 
With  your  pike  upon  your  shoulder, 
At  the  Rising  of  the  Moon." 

Out  from  many  a  mud-wall  cabin 
Eyes  were  watching  through  the  night: 
Many  a  manly  chest  was  throbbing 
For  the  blessed  warning  light; 
Murmurs  passed  along  the  valley 
Like  the  Banshee's  lonely  croon. 
And  a  thousand  blades  were  flashing 
At  the  Rising  of  the  Moon. 


101 


There,  beside  the  sinking  river, 
Thriit^iark:  mass  of  mc^n  were  seen — 
Far  above  the  shining  weapons 
Hung  their  own  beloved  green. 
Death  to  every  foe  and  traitor! 
Forward!  strike  the  marching  tune, 
And  hurrah,  my  boys,  for  freedom ! 
Tis  the  Rising  of  the  Moon." 

Well  they  fought  for  poor  Old  Ireland, 
And  full  bitter  was  their  fate; 
(Oh !  what  glorious  pride  and  sorrow 
Fill  the  name  of  Ninety-Eight!) 
Yet,  thank  God,  e'en  still  are  beating 
Hearts  in  manhood's  burning  noon. 
Who  would  follow  in  their  footsteps 
At  the  Rising  of  the  Moon. 


102 


The  Croppy  Boy 

JT  WAS  early,  early  in  the  spring, 

The  birds  did  whistle  and  sweetly  sing, 
Changing  their  notes  from  tree  to  tree, 
And  the  song  they  sang  was  Old  Ireland  free. 

It  was  early,  early  in  the  night. 
The  yeoman  cavalry  gave  me  a  fright; 
The  yeoman  cavalry  was  my  downfall 
And  taken  was  I  by  Lord  Cornwall. 

'Twas  in  the  guard-house  where  I  was  laid 
And  in  a  parlor  where  I  was  tried; 
My  sentence  passed  and  my  courage  low 
When  to  Dungannon  I  was  forced  to  go. 

As  I  was  passing  by  my  father's  door, 
My  brother  William  stood  at  the  door; 
My  aged  father  stood  at  the  door, 
And  my  tender  mother  her  hair  she  tore. 

As  I  was  walking  up  Wexford  Street 
My  own  first  cousin  I  chanced  to  meet; 
My  own  first  cousin  did  me  betray. 
And  for  one  bare  guinea  swore  my  life  away. 

My  sister  Mary  heard  the  express. 
She  ran  upstairs  in  her  morning-dress — 
Five  hundred  guineas  I  will  lay  down, 
To  see  my  brother  safe  in  Wexford  Town. 


103 


As  I  was  walking  up  Wexford  Hill, 
Who  could  blame  me  to  cry  my  fill? 
I  looked  behind  and  I  looked  before, 
But  my  tender  mother  I  shall  ne'er  see  more. 

As  I  was  mounted  on  the  platform  high, 
My  aged  father  was  standing  by; 
My  aged  father  did  me  deny, 
And  the  name  he  gave  me  was  the  Croppy 
Boy. 

It  was  in  Dungannon  this  young  man  died, 
And  in  Dungannon  his  body  lies ; 
And  you  ^ood  Christians  that  do  nass  by 
Just  drop  a  tear  for  the  Croppy  Boy. 


See  Note  Page  345. 


104 


By  Memory  Inspired 

"DY  Memory  inspired, 

And  love  of  country  fired, 
The  deeds  of  men  I  love  to  dwell  upon : 

And  the  patriotic  glow 

Of  my  spirits  must  bestow 
A  tribute  to  O'Connell  that  is  gone,  boys— gone: 
Here's  a  memory  to  the  friends  that  are  gone! 

In  October  Ninety-seven — 

May  his  soul  find  rest  in  Heaven — 
William  Orr  to  execution  was  led  on: 

The  jury,  drunk,  agreed 

That  Irish  was  his  creed ; 
For  perjury  and  threats  drove  them  on,  boys — onr 
Here's  the  memory  of  John  Mitchell  that  is  gone? 

In  Ninety-eight — the  month  July — 

The  informer's  pay  was  high; 
When  Rejmolds  gave  the  gallows  brave  MacCann; 

But  MacCann  was  Reynolds'  first — 

One  could  not  allay  his  thirst; 
So  he  brought  up  Bond  and  Byrne,  that  are  gone,  boys — gone : 
Here's  the  memory  of  the  friends  that  are  gone! 

We  saw  a  nation's  tears 

Shed  for  John  and  Henry  Shears; 
Betrayed  by  Judas,  Captain  Armstrong; 

We  may  forgive,  but  yet 

We  never  can  forget 
The  poisoning  of  Maguire  that  is  gone,  boys — ^gone: 
Our  high  Star  and  true  Apostle  that  is  gone! 


105 


How  did  Lord  Edward  die? 

Like  a  man,  without  a  sigh; 
But  he  left  his  handiwork  on  Major  Swan! 

But  Sirr,  with  steel-clad  breast. 

And  coward  heart  at  best, 
Left  us  cause  to  mourn  Lord  Edward  that  is  gone,  boys- 
gone: 
Here's  the  memory  of  our  friends  that  are  gone ! 

September,  Eighteen-three, 

Closed  this  cruel  history, 
When  Emmefs  blood  the  scaffold  flowed  upon: 

Oh,  had  their  spirits  been  wise, 

They  might  then  realise 
Their  freedom,  but  we  drink  to  Mitchell  that  is  gone,  boys- 
gone: 
Here's  the  memory  of  the  friends  that  are  gone! 


106 


r 


PART   III 

THE  CELTIC  WORLD  AND  THE  REALM 
OF  FAERY 


Aimirgin's  Invocation 

T  INVOKE  the  land  of  Ireland: 

Much-coursed  be  the  fertile  sea, 
Fertile  be  the  fruit-strewn  mountain. 
Fruit-strewn  be  the  showery  wood, 
Showery  be  the  river  of  waterfalls, 
Of  waterfalls  be  the  lake  of  deep  pools, 
Deep-pooled  be  the  hill-top  wall, 
A  well  of  tribes  be  the  assembly, 
An  assembly  of  kings  be  Temair, 
Temair  be  the  hill  of  the  tribes, 
The  tribes  of  the  sons  of  Mil, 
Of  Mil  of  the  ships,  the  barks ! 

Let  the  lofty  bark  be  Ireland, 

Lofty  Ireland,  darkly  sung. 

An  incantation  of  great  cunning: 

The  great  cunning  of  the  wives  of  Bres, 

The  wives  of  Bres,  of  Buaigne; 

The  great  lady,  Ireland, 

Eremon  hath  conquered  her, 

I,  Eber,  have  invoked  for  her. 
I  invoke  the  land  of  Ireland! 

Translated  by  Professor  Mac  Neill. 
See  Note  Page  345. 


109 


St.  Patrick's  Breastplate 

T  ARISE  to-day 

Through  the  strength  of  heaven : 
Light  of  sun, 
Radiance  of  moon, 
Splendor  of  fire, 
Speed  of  lightning, 
Swiftness  of  wind, 
Depth  of  sea, 
Stability  of  earth, 
Firmness  of  rock. 

I  arise  to-day 

Through  God's  strength  to  pilot  me: 

God's  might  to  uphold  me, 

God's  wisdom  to  guide  me, 

God's  eye  to  look  before  me, 

God's  ear  to  hear  me, 

God's  word  to  speak  for  me, 

God's  hand  to  guard  me, 

God's  way  to  lie  before  me, 

God's  shield  to  protect  me, 

God's  host  to  save  me 

From  snares  of  devils. 

From  temptations  of  vices. 

From  every  one  who  shall  wish  me  ill, 

Afar  and  anear. 

Alone  and  in  a  multitude. 


110 


Christ  to  shield  me  to-day 

Against  poison,  against  burning, 

Against  drowning,  against  wounding, 

So  that  there  may  come  to  me  abundance  of  reward. 

Christ  with  me,  Christ  before  me,  Christ  behind  me, 

Christ  in  me,  Christ  beneath  me,  Christ  above  me, 

Christ  on  my  right,  Christ  on  my  left, 

Christ  when  I  lie.  down,  Christ  when  X  sit  down,  Christ  when 

I  arise, 
Christ  in  the  heart  of  every  man  who  thinks  of  me, 
Christ  in  the  mouth  of  every  one  who  speaks  of  me, 
Christ  in  every  eye  that  sees  me, 
Christ  in  every  ear  that  hears  me. 

I  arise  to-day 

Through  a  mighty  strength,  the  invocation  of  the  Trinity, 

Through  belief  in  the  threeness, 

Through  confession  of  the  oneness 

Of  the  Creator  of  Creation. 

Translated  by  Kuno  Meyer. 
See  Note  Page  346. 


Ill 


In  Praise    of   May 

Ascribed  to  Fionn  mac  Cumhaill, 

jyj  AY-DAY  I  delightful  day! 

Bright  colours  play  the  vale  along. 
Now  wakes  at  morning's  slender  ray 
Wild  and  gay  the  blackbird's  song. 

Now  comes  the  bird  of  dusty  hue, 
The  loud  cuckoo,  the  summer-lover; 
Branchy  trees  are  thick  with  leaves ; 
The  bitter,  evil  time  is  over. 

Swift  horses  gather  nigh 
Where  half  dry  the  river  goes ; 
Tufted  heather  clothes  the  height; 
Weak  and  white  the  bogdown  blows. 

Corncrake  sings  from  eve  to  morn, 
Deep  in  corn,  a  strenuous  bard  I 
Sings  the  virgin  waterfall, 
White  and  tall,  her  one  sweet  word. 

Loaded  bees  with  puny  power 
Goodly  flower-harvest  win; 
Cattle  roam  with  muddy  flanks; 
Busy  ants  go  out  and  in. 


112 


Through  the  wild  harp  of  the  wood 
Making  music  roars  the  gale — 
Now  it  settles  without  motion. 
On  the  ocean  sleeps  the  sail. 

Men  grow  mighty  in  the  May, 
Proud  and  gay  the  maidens  grow; 
Fair  is  every  wooded  height; 
Fair  and  bright  the  plain  below. 

A  bright  shaft  has  smit  the  streams. 
With  gold  gleams  the  water-flag; 
Leaps  the  fish,  and  on  the  hills 
Ardor  thrills  the  leaping  stag. 

Loudly  carols  the  lark  on  high, 
Small  and  shy,  his  tireless  lay, 
Singing  in  wildest,  merriest  mood, 
Delicate-hued,  delightful  May. 

Translated  by  T.  W.  Rolleston. 


113 


The  Sleep-Song  of  Grainne  Over  Dermuid 

When  fleeing  from  Fionn  Mac  Cumhaill 

gLEEP  a  little,  a  little  little,  thou  needst  feel  no  fear  or 

dread, 
Youth  to  whom  my  love  is  given,  I  am  watching  near  thy 
head. 

Sleep  a  little,  with  my  blessing,  Dermuid  of  the  lightsome  eye, 
I  will  guard  thee  as  thou  dreamest,  none  shall  harm  while  I 
am  by. 

Sleep,  O  little  lamb,  whose  homeland  was  the  country  of  the 

lakes, 
In  whose  bosom  torrents  tremble,  from  whose  sides  the  river 

breaks. 

Sleep,  as  slept  the  ancient  poet,  Dedach,  minstrel  of  the 
South, 

When  he  snatched  from  Conall  Cernach  Eithne  of  the  laugh- 
ing mouth. 

Sleep  as  slept  the  comely  Finncha  *neath  the  falls  of  Assaroe, 
Who,   when   stately   Slaine   sought  him,   laid  the   Hard-head 
Failbe  low. 

Sleep  in  joy,   as    slept   fair   Aine,   Gailan's   daughter  of   the 

west. 
Where,  amid  the  flaming  torches,  she  and  Duvach  found  their 

rest. 


114 


Sleep  as  Degha,  who  in  triumph,  ere  the  sun  sang  o'er  the 

land, 
Stole  the  maiden  he  had  craved  for,  plucked  her  from  fierce 

Deacall's  hand. 

Fold  of  Valour,  sleep  a  little.  Glory  of  the  Western  world; 
I  am  wondering  at  thy  beauty,  marvelling  how  thy  locks  are 
curled. 

Like  the  parting  of  two  children,  bred  together  in  one  home, 
Like  the  breaking  of  two  spirits,  if  I  did  not  see  thee  come. 

Swirl  the  leaves  before  the  tempest,  moans  the  night-wind 

o*er  the  lea, 
Down  its  stony  bed  the  streamlet  hurries  onward  to  the  sea. 

In  the   swaying  boughs   the   linnet  twitters   in   the   darkling 

light. 
On  the  upland  wastes  of  heather  wings  the  grouse  its  heavy 

flight. 

In  the  marshland  by  the  river  sulkg  the  otter  in  his  den; 
While  the  piping  of  the  peeweet  sounds  across  the  distant 
fen. 

On  the  stormy  mere  the  wild-duck  pushes  outward  from  the 

brake. 
With  her  downy  brood  beside  her  seeks  the  centre  of  the 

lake. 

In  the  east  the  restless  roe-deer  bellows  to  his   frightened 

hind; 
On  thy  track  the  wolf-hounds  gather,  sniffing  up  against  the 

wind. 

Yet,  O  Dermuid,  sleep  a  little,  this  one  night  our  fear  hath 

fled. 
Youth  to  whom  my  love  is  given,  see,  I  watch  beside  thy 

bed. 

Translated  by  Eleanor  Hull. 
See  Note  Page  346. 


115 


The   Awakening   of  Dermuid 

TN  the  sleepy  forest  where  the  bluebells 
Smouldered  dimly  through  the  night, 
Dermuid  saw  the  leaves  like  glad  green  waters 
At  daybreak  flowing  into  light, 
And  exultant  from  his  love  upspringing 
Strode  with  the  sun  upon  the  height. 

Glittering  on  the  hilltops 

He  saw  the  sunlit  rain 

Drift  as  around  the  spindle 

A  silver-threaded  skein. 

And  the  brown  mist  whitely  breaking 

Where  arrowy  torrents  reached  the  plain. 

A  maddened  moon 

Leapt  in  his  heart  and  whirled  the  crimson  tide 

Of  his  blood  until  it  sang  aloud  of  battle 

Where  the  querns  of  dark  death  grind, 

Till  it  sang  and  scorned  in  pride 

Love — the  froth-pale  blossom  of  the  boglands 

That  flutters  on  the  waves  of  the  wandering  wind. 

Flower-quiet  in  the  rush-strewn  sheiling 

At  the  dawntime  Grainne  lay. 

While  beneath  the  birch-topped  roof  the  sunlight 

Groped  upon  its  way 

And  stooped  above  her  sleeping  white  body 

With  a  wasp-yellow  ray. 


116 


The  hot  breath  of  the  day  awoke  her, 

And  wearied  of  its  heat 

She  wandered  out  by  the  noisy  elms 

On  the  cool  moss>  peat. 

Where  the  shadowed  leaves  like  pecking  linnets 

Nodded  around  her  feet. 

She  leaned  and  saw  in  the  pale-grey  waters, 

By  twisted  hazel  boughs, 

Her  lips  like  heavy  drooping  poppies 

In  a  rich  redness  drowse, 

Then  swallow — lightly  touched  the  ripples 

Until  her  wet  lips  were 

Burning  as  ripened  rowan  berries 

Through  the  white  winter  air. 

Lazily  she  lingered 

Gazing  so, 
As  the  slender  osiers 
Where  the  waters  flow. 
As  green  twigs  of  sally 
Swaying  to  and  fro. 

Sleepy  moths  fluttered 

In  her  dark  eyes, 

And  her  lips  grew  quieter 

Than  lullabies. 

Swaying  with  the  reedgrass 

Over  the  stream 

Lazily  she  lingered 

Cradling  a  dream. 

Austin  Clarke, 
From  "The  Vengeance  of  Finn,** 


117 


The  Lay  of  Prince  Marvan 

'X'HERE  is  a  sheeling  hidden  in  the  wood 

Unknown  to  all  save  God; 
An  ancient  ash-tree  and  a  hazel-bush 
Their  sheltering  shade  afford. 

Around  the  doorway's  heather-laden  porch 

Wild  honeysuckles  twine ; 
Prolific  oaks,  within  the  forest's  gloom, 

Shed  mast  upon  fat  swine. 

Many  a  sweet  familiar  woodland  path 

Comes  winding  to  my  door; 
Lowly  and  humble  is  my  hermitage, 

Poor,  and  yet  not  too  poor. 

From  the  high  gable-end  my  lady's  throat 

Her  trilling  chant  outpours, 
Her  sombre  mantle,  like  the  ousel's  coat, 

Shows  dark  above  my  doors. 

From  the  high  oakridge  where  the  roe-deer  leaps 

The  river-banks  between, 
Renowned  Mucraime  and  Red  Roigne's  plains 

Lie  wrapped  in  robes  of  green. 

Here  in  the  silence,  where  no  care  intrudes, 

I  dwell  at  peace  with  God ; 
What  gift  like  this  hast  thou  to  give.  Prince  Guaire, 

Were  I  to  roam  abroad? 


118 


The  heavy  branches  of  the  green-barked  yew 

That  seem  to  bear  the  sky; 
The  spreading  oak,  that  shields  me  from  the  storm, 

When  winds  rise  high. 

Like  a  great  hostel,  welcoming  to  all, 

My  laden  apple-tree; 
Low  in  the  hedge,  the  modest  hazel-bush 

Drops  ripest  nuts  for  me. 

Round  the  pure  spring,  that  rises  crystal  clear, 

Straight  from  the  rock, 
Wild  goats  and  swine,  red  fox,  and  grazing  deer, 

At  sundown  iflock. 

The  host  of  forest-dwellers  of  the  soil 

Trysting  at  night; 
To  meet  them^foxes  come,  a  peaceful  troop, 

For  my  delight. 

Like  exiled  princes,  flocking  to  their  home, 

They  gather  round ; 
Beneath  the  river  bank  great  salmon  leap, 

And  trout  abound. 

Rich  rowan  clusters,  and  the  dusky  sloe. 

The  bitter,  dark  blackthorn, 
Ripe  whortle-berries,  nuts  of  amber  hue. 

The  cup-enclosed  acorn. 

A  clutch  of  eggs,  sweet  honey,  mead  and  ale, 

God's  goodness  still  bestows; 
Red  apples,  and  the  fruitage  of  the  heath, 

His  constant  mercy  shows. 

The  goodly  tangle  of  the  briar-trail 

Climbs  over  all  the  hedge; 
Far  out  of  sight,  the  trembling  waters  wail 

Through  rustling  rush  and  sedge. 


119 


Luxuriant  summer  spreads  its  coloured  cloak 

And  covers  all  the  land; 
Bright  blue-bells,  sunk  in  woods  of  russet  oak, 

Their  blooms  expand. 

The  movements  of  the  bright  red-breasted  wren, 

A  lovely  melody ! 
Above  my  house,  the  thrush  and  cuckoo's  strain 

A  chorus  wakes  for  me. 

The  little  music-makers  of  the  world 

Chafers  and  bees. 
Drone  answer  to  the  tumbling  torrent's  roar 

Beneath  the  trees. 

From  gable-ends,  from  every  branch  and  stem, 

Sounds  sweetest  music  now; 
Unseen,  in  restless  flight,  the  lively  wren 

Flits  'neath  the  hazel-bough. 

Deep  in  the  firmament  the  sea-gulls  fly, 

One  widely-circling  wreath; 
The  cheerful  cuckoo's  call,  the  poult's  reply, 

Sound  o'er  the  distant  heath. 

The  lowing  of  the  calves  in  summer-time. 

Best  season  of  the  year! 
Across  the  fertile  plain,  pleasant  the  sound. 

Their  call  I  hear. 

Voice  of  the  wind  against  the  branchy  wood 

Upon  the  deep  blue  sky; 
Most  musical  the  ceaseless  waterfall. 

The  swan's  shrill  cry. 

No  hired  chorus,  trained  to  praise  its  chief. 

Comes  welling  up  for  me; 
The  music  made  for  Christ  the  Ever-young, 

Sounds  forth  without  a  fee. 


120 


Though  great  thy  wealth,  Prince  Guaire,  happier  live 

Those  who  can  boast  no  hoard  ; 
Who  take  at  Christ's  hand  that  which  He  doth  give 

As  their  award. 

Far  from  life's  tumult  and  the  din  of  strife 

I  dwell  with  Him  in  peace, 
Content  and  grateful,  for  Thy  gifts,  High  Prince, 

Daily  increase. 

(Guaire  replies) 

Wisely  thou  choosest,  Marvan ;  I  a  king 

Would  lay  my  kingdom  by, 
With  Colman's  gflorious  heritage  I'd  part 

To  bear  thee  company! 

Translated  by  Eleanor  Hull. 


See  Note  Page  346. 


121 


The  Counsels  of  O'Riordan,  the  Rann 

Maker 

# 

'T'HE  choirs  of  Heaven  are  tokened  in  a  harp-string, 

A  pigeon's  ^gg  is  as  crafty  as  the  stars. 
My  heart  is  shaken  by  the  crying  of  the  lap-wing, 
And  yet  the  world  is  full  of  foolish  wars. 

There's  gold  on  the  whin-bush  every  summer  morning. 
There's  struggling  discourse  in  the  grunting  of  a  pig: 
Yet  churls  will  be  scheming,  and  churls  will  be  scorning, 
And  half  the  dim  world  is  ruled  by  thimble-rig. 

The  luck  of  God  is  in  two  strangers  meeting, 
But  the  gates  of  Hell  are  in  the  city  street 
For  him  whose  soul  is  not  in  his  own  keeping 
And  love  a  silver  string  upon  his  feet. 

My  heart  is  the  seed  of  time,  my  veins  are  star-dust, 
My  spirit  is  the  axle  of  God's  dream. 
Why  should  my  august  soul  be  worn  or  care-tost?  .  .  . 
Lo,  God  is  but  a  lamp,  and  I  his  gleam. 

There's  little  to  be  known,  and  that  not  kindly. 
But  an  ant  will  burrow  through  a  five-inch  wall ; 
There's  nothing  rises  up  or  falls  down  blindly: 
That's  a  poor  share  of  wisdom,  but  it's  all. 

T.  D.   O'BOLGER. 


122 


My  Love,  Oh,  She  Is  My  Love 

CHE  casts  a  spell,  oh,  casts  a  spell! 

Which  haunts  me  more  than  I  can  tell. 
Dearer,  because  she  makes  me  ill 
Than  who  would  will  to  make  me  well. 

She  is  my  store!  oh,  she  my  store! 
Whose  grey  eye  wounded  me  so  sore, 
Who  will  not  place  in  mine  her  palm, 
Nor  love,  nor  calm  me  any  more. 

She  is  my  pet,  oh,  she  my  pet ! 
Whom  I  can  never  more  forget; 
Who  would  not  lose  by  me  one  moan. 
Nor  stone  upon  my  cairn  would  set. 

She  is  my  roon,  oh,  she  my  roon ! 
Who  tells  me  nothing,  leaves  me  soon ; 
Who  would  not  lose  by  me  one  sigh, 
Were  death  and  I  within  one  room. 

She  is  my  dear,  oh,  she  my  dear ! 
Who  cares  not  whether  I  be  here. 
Who  will  not  weep  when  I  am  dead, 
But  makes  me  shed  the  silent  tear. 

Hard  my  case,  oh,  hard  my  case! 
For  in  her  eye  no  hope  I  trace, 
She  will  not  hear  me  any  more, 
But  I  adore  her  silent  face. 


123 


She  is  my  choice,  oh,  she  my  choice! 
Who  never  made  me  to  rejoice; 
Who  caused  my  heart  to  ache  so  oft, 
Who  put  no  softness  in  her  voice. 

Great  my  grief,  oh,  great  my  grief  I 
Neglected,  scorned  beyond  belief, 
By  her  who  looks  at  me  askance, 
By  her  who  grants  me  no  relief. 

She's  my  desire,  oh,  my  desire! 
More  glorious  than  the  bright  sun's  fire ; 
Who  were  than  wild-blown  ice  more  cold 
Were  I  so  bold  as  to  sit  by  her. 

She  it  is  who  stole  my  heart. 
And  left  a  void  and  aching  smart; 
But  if  she  soften  not  her  eye, 
I  know  that  life  and  I  must  part. 
Translated  by  Douglas  Hyde. 


124 


At  the  Yellow  Bohereen 

AT  THE  Yellow  Bohereen 
Is  my  heart's  secret  queen, 
Alone  on  her  soft  bed  a-sleeping; 
Each  tress  of  her  hair, 
Than  the   King's   gold  more   fair, 
The  dew  from  the  grass  might  be  sweeping. 

I'm  a  man  of  Teig's   race, 

Who  has  watched  her  fair  face; 
And  away  from  her  ever  I'm  sighing. 

And,  oh,  my  heart's  store, 

Be  not  grieved  ever  more. 
That  for  you  a  young  man  should  be  dying! 

Should  my  love  with  me  come 

I  would  build  her  a  home. 
The  finest  e'er  told  of  in  Eirinn; 

And  'tis  then  she  would  shine, 

And  her  fame  ne'er  decline. 
For  beauty  o'er  all  the  palm  bearing. 

For  in  your  bosom  bright 

Shines  the  pure,  sunny  light. 
As  on  your  smooth  brow  graceful  ever; 

And,  oh,  could  I  say 

You're  my  own  from  this  day. 
Death's  contest  would  frighten  me  never! 
Translated  by  George  Petrie. 


125 


The  Woman  of  Beare 

"CABBING,  the  wave  of  the  sea 

Leaves,  where  it  wantoned  before 
Wan  and  naked  the  shore. 
Heavy  the  clotted  weed. 
And  my  heart,  woe  is  me! 
Ebbs  a  wave  of  the  sea. 

I  am  the  woman  of  Beare. 
Foul  am  I  that  was  fair. 
Gold-embroidered  smocks  I  had, 
Now  in  rags  am  hardly  clad. 

Arms,  now  so  i)por  and  thin. 
Staring  bone  and  shrunken  skin, 
Once  were  lustrous,  once  caressed 
Chiefs  and  warriors  to  their  rest. 

Not  the  sage's  power,  nor  lone 
Splendour  of  an  aged  throne, 
Wealth  I  envy  not,  nor  state. 
Only  women  folk  I  hate. 

On  your  heads,  while  I  am  cold, 
Shines  the  sun  of  living  gold 
Flowers  shall  wreathe  your  necks  in  May: 
For  me,  every  month  is  grey. 


126 


Yours  the  bloom :  but  ours  the  fire, 
Even  out  of  dead  desire. 
Wealth,  not  men,  ye  love ;  but  when 
Life  was  in  us,  we  loved  men. 

Fair  the  men,  and  wild  the  manes 
Of  their  coursers  on  the  plains; 
Wild  the  chariots  rocked,  when  we 
Raced  by  them  for  mastery. 

Lone  is  Femen :  vacant,  bare 
Stands  in  Bregon  Ronan's  chair. 
And  the  slow  tooth  of  the  sky 
Frets  the  stones  where  my  dead  lie. 

The  wave  of  the  great  sea  talks; 
Through  the  forest  winter  stalks ; 
Not  to-day  by  wood  and  sea 
Comes  King  Diarmuid  here  to  me. 

I  know  what  my  King  does. 
Through  the  shivering  reeds,  across 
Fords  no  mortal  strength  may  breast, 
He  rows — to  how  chill  a  rest! 

Amen,  Time  ends  all. 
Every  acorn  has  to  fall. 
Bright  at  feasts  the  candles  were, 
Dark  is  here  the  house  of  prayer. 

I,  that  when  the  hour  was  mine 
Drank  with  kings  the  mead  and  wine. 
Drink  whey-water  now,  in  rags 
Praying  among  shrivelled  hags. 


127 


Amen,  let  my  drink  be  whey, 
Let  me  do  God*s  will  all  day — 
And,  as  upon  God  I  call, 
Turn  my  blood  to  angry  gall. 

Ebb,  flood,  and  ebb:  I  know 
Well  the  ebb,  and  well  the  flow, 
And  the  second  ebb,  all  three — 
Have  they  not  come  home  to  me! 

Came  the  flood  that  had  for  waves 
Monarchs,  mad  to  be  my  slaves. 
Crested  as  by  foam  with  bounds 
Of  wild  steeds  and  leaping  hounds. 

Comes  no  more  that  flooding  tide 
To  my  silent  dark  fireside. 
Guests  are  many  in  my  hall. 
But  a  hand  has  touched  them  all. 

Well  is  with  the  isle  that  feels 
Now  the  ocean  backward  steals: 
But  to  me  my  ebbing  blood 
Brings  again  no  forward  flood. 

Ebbing,  the  wave  of  the  sea 
Leaves,  where  it  wantoned  before, 
Changed  past  knowing  the  shore. 
Lean  and  lonely  and  grey. 
And  far  and  farther  from  me 
Ebbs  the  wave  of  the  sea. 

Translated  by    Stephen  Gwynn. 

See  Note  Page  346. 


128 


Cuchullain's  Lament  Over  Fardiad 

pLAY  was  each,  pleasure  each, 

Until  Fardiad  faced  the  beach; 
One  had  been  our  student  life, 
One  in  strife  of  school  our  place, 
One  our  gentle  teacher's  grace 

Loved  o'er  all  and  each. 

Play  was  each,  pleasure  each. 
Until  Fardiad  faced  the  beach; 
One  had  been  our  wonted  ways. 
One  the  praise  for  feat  of  fields, 
Scatach  gave  two  victor-shields 
Equal  prize  to  each. 

Play  was  each,  pleasure  each. 
Till  Fardiad  faced  the  beach; 
Dear  that  pillar  of  pure  gold 
Who  fell  cold  beside  the  ford. 
Hosts  of  heroes  felt  his  sword 
First  in  battle's  breach. 

Play  was  each,  pleasure  each. 
Till  Fardiad  faced  the  beach; 
Lion  fiery,  fierce,  and  bright, 
Wave  whose  might  no  thing  withstands. 
Sweeping  with  the  shrieking  sands 
Horror  o'er  the  beach. 

Play  was  each,  pleasure  each. 
Till  Fardiad  faced  the  beach; 
Loved  Fardiad,  dear  to  me! 
I  shall  dree  his  death  for  aye! 
Yesterday  a  Mountain  he — 
But  a  shade  to-day! 
Translated  by  Dr.  George  Sigerson. 
See  Note  Page  347. 

129 


King  Cahal  M6r  of  the  Wine-Red  Hand 

T  WALKED  entranced 

Through  a  land  of  Morn: 
The  sun,  with  wondrous  excess  of  light, 
Shone  down  and  glanced 
Over  seas  of  corn 

And  lustrous  gardens  aleft  and  right. 
Even  in  the  clime 
Of  resplendent  Spain, 
Beams  no  such  sun  upon  such  a  land; 
But  it  was  the  time, 
*Twas  in  the  reign. 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand. 

Anon  stood  nigh 

By  my  side  a  man 

Of  princely  aspect  and  port  sublime 

Him  queried  I — 

"Oh,  my  Lord  and  Khan, 

What  clime  is  this,  and  what  golden  time?" 

When  he— "The  clime 

Is  a  clime  to  praise, 

The  clime  is  Erin's,  the  green  and  bland; 

And  it  is  the  time, 

These  be  the  days. 

Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand." 

Then  saw  I  thrones 
And  circling  fires, 

And  a  Dome  rose  near  me,  as  by  a  spell, 
Whence  flowed  the  tones 
Of  silver  lyres, 

And  many  voices  in  wreathed  swell; 
130 


And  their  thrilling  chime 

Fell  on  mine  ears 

As  the  heavenly  hymn  of  an  angel-band — 

"It  is  now  the  time 

These  be  the  years, 

Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand." 

I  sought  the  hall, 

And  behold ! — a  change 

From  light  to  darkness,  from  joy  to  woe! 

Kings,  nobles,  all, 

Looked  aghast  and  strange; 

The  minstrel  group  sate  in  dumbest  show! 

Had  some  great  crime 

Wrought  this  dread  amaze, 

This  terror?     None  seemed  to  understand 

'Twas  then  the  time, 

We  were  in  the  days, 

Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand. 

I  again  walked  forth; 
But  lo !  the  sky 

Showed  flecked  with  blood,  and  an  alien  sun 
Glared  from  the  north. 
And  there  stood  on  high. 
Amid  his  shorn  beams,  a  skeleton ! 
It  was  by  the  stream 
Of  the  castled  Maine, 
One  Autumn  eve,  in  the  Teuton's  land, 
That  I  dreamed  this   dream 
Of  the  time  and  reign 
Of  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine-red  Hand. 
Translated  by  James  Clarence  Mangan. 
See  Note  Page  347. 


131 


Kincora 

AH,  WHERE,  Kincora!  is  Brian  the  Great? 

And  where  is  the  beauty  that  once  was  thine? 
Oh,  where  are  the  princes  and  nobles  that  sate 
At  the  feasts  in  thy  halls,  and  drank  the  red  wine, 
Where,  O  Kincora? 

Oh,  where,  Kincora !  are  thy  valorous  lords  ? 
Oh,  whither,  thou  Hospitable!  are  they  gone? 
Oh,  where  are  the  Dalcassians  of  the  Golden  Swords? 
And  where  are  the  warriors  Brian  led  on? 

Where,  O  Kincora? 

And  where  is  Murrough,  the  descendant  of  kings — 
The  defeater  of  a  hundred— the  daringly  brave— 
Who  set  but  slight  store  by  jewels  and  rings— 
Who  swam  down  the  torrent  and  laughed  at  its  wave? 
Where,  O  Kincora? 

And  where  is  Donogh,  King  Brian's  worthy  son? 
And  where  is  Conaing,  the  Beautiful  Chief? 
And  Kian,  and  Core  ?    Alas  !  they  are  gone — 
They  have  left  me  this  night  alone  with  my  grief! 
Left  me,  Kincora! 

And  where  are  the  chiefs  with  whom  Brian  went  forth, 
The  ne'er-vanquished  son  of  Evin  the  Brave, 
The  great  King  of  Onaght,  renowned  for  his  worth. 
And  the  hosts  of  Baskinn,  from  the  western  wave? 
Where,  O  Kincora? 


132 


Oh,  where  is  Duvlann  of  the  Swift- footed  Steeds? 
And  where  is  Kian,  who  was  son  of  Molloy? 
And  where  is  King  Lonergan,  the  fame  of  whose  deeds 
In  the  red  battlefield  no  time  can  destroy? 
Where,  O  Kincora? 

And  where  is  that  youth  of  majestic  height, 
The  faith-keeping  Prince  of  the  Scots? — Even  he. 
As  wide  as  his  fame  was,  as  great  as  was  his  might, 
Was  tributary,  O  Kincora,  to  thee! 

Thee,  O  Kincora! 

They  are  gone,  those  heroes  of  royal  birth. 
Who  plundered  no  churches,  and  broke  no  trust, 
Tis  weary  for  me  to  be  living  on  earth 
When  they,  O  Kincora,  lie  low  in  the  dust! 
Low,  O  Kincora! 

Oh,  never  again  will  Princes  appear. 
To  rival  the  Dalcassians  of  the  Cleaving  Swords ! 
I  can  never  dream  of  meeting  afar  or  anear, 
In  the  east  or  the  west,  such  heroes  and  lords ! 
Never,  O  Kincora! 

Oh,  dear  are  the  images  my  memory  calls  up 
Of  Brian  Boru! — how  he  never  would  miss 
To  give  me  at  the  banquet  the  first  bright  cup ! 
Ah !  why  did  he  heap  on  me  honor  like  this  ? 
Why,  O  Kincora? 

I  am  MacLiag,  and  my  home  is  on  the  Lake ; 
Thither  often,  to  that  palace  whose  beauty  is  fled. 
Came  Brian  to  ask  me,  and  I  went  for  his  sake. 
Oh,  my  grief !  that  I  should  live,  and  Brian  be  dead 
Dead,  O  Kincora! 
Translated  by  James  Clarence  Mangan. 
See  Note  Page  348. 


133 


The  Grave  of  Rury 

/^LEAR  as  air,  the  western  waters 

evermore  their  sweet,  unchanging  song 
Murmur  in  their  stony  channels 
round  O'Conor's  sepulchre  in  Cong. 

Crownless,  hopeless,  here  he  lingered; 
year  on  year  went  by  him  like  a  dream, 
While  the  far-off  roar  of  conquest 
murmured  faintly  like  the  singing  stream. 

Here  he  died,  and  here  they  tombed  him 
men  of  Fechin,  chanting  round  his  grave. 
Did  they  know,  ah !  did  they  know  it, 
what  they  buried  by  the  babbling  wave? 

Now  above  the  sleep  of  Rury 

holy  things  and  great  have  passed  away; 

Stone  by  stone  the  stately  Abbey 

falls  and  fades  in  passionless  decay. 

Darkly  grows  the  quiet  ivy, 

pale  the  broken  arches  glimmer  through; 

Dark  upon  the  cloister-garden 

dreams  the  shadow  of  the  ancient  yew. 

Through  the  roofless  aisles  the  verdure 
flows,  the  meadow-sweet  and  fox-glove  bloom. 
Earth,  the  mother  and  consoler, 
winds  soft  arms  about  the  lonely  tomb. 

Peace  and  holy  gloom  possess  him, 
last  of  Gaelic  monarchs  of  the  Gael, 
Slumbering  by  the  young,   eternal 
river-voices  of  the  western  vale. 

T.  W.  ROLLESTON. 

See  Note  Page  348. 

134 


The  Shadow  House  of  Lugh 

"r\ REAM-FAIR,  beside  dream  waters,  it  stands  alone: 

A  winged  thought  of  Lugh  made  its  corner  stone: 
A  desire  of  his  heart  raised  its  walls  on  high, 
And  set  its  crystal  windows  to  flaunt  the  sky. 

Its  doors  of  the  white  bronze  are  many  and  bright, 
With  wonderous  carven  pillars  for  his  Love*s  delight, 
And  its  roof  of  the  blue  wings,  the  speckled  red. 
Is  a  flaming  arc  of  beauty  above  her  head. 

Like  a  mountain  through  mist  Lugh  towers  high, 
The  fiery-forked  lightning  is  the  glance  of  his  eye, 
His  countenance  is  noble  as  the  Sun-god's  face — 
The  proudest  chieftain  he  of  a  proud  De  Danaan  race. 

He  bides  there  in  peace  now,  his  wars  are  all  done — 
He  gave  his  hand  to  Balor  when  the  death  gate  was  won. 
And  for  the  strife-scarred  heroes  who  wander  in  the  shade. 
His  door  lieth  open,  and  the  rich  feast  is  laid. 

He  hath  no  vexing  memory  of  blood  in  slanting  rain. 
Of  green  spears  in  hedges  on  a  battle  plain ; 
But  through  the  haunted  quiet  his  Lovers  silver  words 
Blow  round  him  swift  as  wing-beats  of  enchanted  birds. 


135 


A  grey  haunted  wind  is  blowing  in  the  hall, 
And  stirring  through  the  shadowy  spears  upon  the  wall, 
The  drinking-horn  goes  round  from  shadowy  lip  to  lip — 
And  about  the  golden  methers  shadowy  fingers  slip. 

The  Star  of  Beauty,  she  who  queens  it  there; 
Diademed,  and  wondrous  long,  her  yellow  hair. 
Her  eyes  are  twin-moons  in  a  rose-sweet  face, 
And  the  fragrance  of  her  presence  fills  all  the  place. 

He  plays  for  her  pleasure  on  his  harp's  gold  wire 

The  laughter-tune  that  leaps  along  in  trills  of  fire; 

She  hears  the  dancing  feet  of  Sidhe  where  a  white  moc 

gleams. 
And  all  her  world  is  joy  in  the  House  of  Dreams. 

He  plays  for  her  soothing  the  Slumber-song: 
Fine  and  faint  as  any  dream  it  glides  along: 
She  sleeps  until  the  magic  of  his  kiss  shall  rouse; 
And  all  her  world  is  quiet  in  the  Shadow-house. 

His  days  glide  to  night,  and  his  nights  glide  to  day: 
With  circling  of  the  amber  mead,  and  feasting  gay; 
In  the  yellow  of  her  hair  his  dreams  lie  curled, 
And  her  arms  make  the  rim  of  his  rainbow  world. 

Ethna  Career y. 

See  Note  Page  348. 


186 


The  King's  Son 

Ty"HO   rideth  through  the   driving   rain 

At  such  a  headlong  speed? 
Naked  and  pale  he  rides  amain 
Upon  a  naked  steed. 

Nor  hollow  nor  height  his  going  bars, 
His  wet  steed  shines  like  silk, 

His  head  is  golden  to  the  stars 
And  his  limbs  are  white  as  milk. 

But,  lo,  he  dwindles  as  the  light 

That  lifts  from  a  black  mere, 
And,  as  the  fair  youth  wanes  from  sight, 

The  steed  grows  mightier. 

What  wizard  by  yon  holy  tree 

Mutters  unto  the  sky 
Where  Macha's  flame-tongued  horses  flee 

On  hoofs  of  thunder  by? 

Ah,  'tis  not  holy  so  to  ban 

The  youth  of  kingly  seed: 
Ah!  woe,  the  wasting  of  a  man 

Who  changes  to  a  steed! 

Nightly  upon  the  Plain  of  Kings, 

When  Macha's  day  is  nigh, 
He  gallops ;  and  the  dark  wind  brings 

His  lonely  human  cry. 

Thomas  Bowd. 


137 


The  Fairy  Host 

pURE  white  the  shields  their  arms  upbear, 

With  silver  emblems  rare  o'ercast; 
Amid  blue  glittering  blades  they  go, 
The  horns  they  blow  are  loud  of  blast. 

In  well-instructed  ranks  of  war 
Before  their  Chief  they  proudly  pace; 
Coerulean  spears  o'er  every  crest — 
A  curly-tressed,  pale-visaged  race. 

Beneath  the   flame  /of  their  attack, 
Bare  and  black  turns  every  coast; 
With  such  a  terror  to  the  fight 
Flashes  that  mighty  vengeful  host. 

Small  wonder  that  their  strength  is  great, 
Since  royal  in  estate  are  all, 
Each  hero's  head  a  lion*s  fell — 
A  golden  yellow  mane  lets  fall. 

Comely  and  smooth  their  bodies  are. 
Their   eyes   the   starry  blue   eclipse, 
The  pure  white  crystal  of  their  teeth 
Laughs  out  beneath  their  thin   red  lips. 

Good  are  they  at  man-slaying  feats, 
Melodious  over  meats  and  ale; 
Of  woven  verse  they  wield  the  spell, 
At  chess-craft  they  excel  the   Gael. 

Translated  by  Alfred  Percival  Graves. 


138 


The  Fairy  Thorn 

i</^ET  up,  our  Anna  dear,  from  the  weary  spinning-wheel; 
For   your    father's    on   the   hill,    and   your   mother   is 
asleep ; 
Come  up  above  the  crags,  and  we'll  dance  a  Highland  reel 
Around  the  Fairy  Thorn  on  the  steep." 

At  Anna  Grace's  door  'twas  thus  the  maidens  cried, 
Three  merry  maidens  fair  in  kirtles  of  the  green; 
And  Anna  laid  the  rock  and  the  weary  wheel  aside. 
The  fairest  of  the  four,  I  ween. 

They're  glancing  through  the  glimmer  of  the  quiet  eve, 
Away  in  milky  wavings  of  neck  and  ankle  bare; 
The  heavy-sliding  stream  in  its  sleepy  song  they  leave, 
And  the  crags  in  the  ghostly  air. 

And  linking  hand-in-hand,  and  singing  as  they  go, 

The  maids  along  the  hillside  have  ta'en  their  fearless  way. 

Till  they  come  to  where  the  rowan  trees  in  lonely  beauty 

grow 
Beside  the  Fairy  Hawthorn  grey. 

The  Hawthorn  stands  between  the  ashes  tall  and  slim. 
Like   matron   with   her   twin   grand-daughters    at  her   knee; 
The  rowan  berries  cluster  o'er  her  low  head  grey  and  dim 
In  ruddy  kisses  sweet  to  see. 

The  merry  maidens  four  have  ranged  them  in  a  row, 
Between  each  lovely  couple  a  stately  rowan  stem. 
And  away  in  mazes  wavy,  like  skimming  birds  they  go. 
Oh,  never  carolled  bird  like  them ! 


139 


But  solemn  is  the  silence  on  the  silvery  haze 
That  drinks  away  their  voices  in  echoless  repose, 
And  dreamily  the  evening  has  stilled  the  haunted  braes, 
And  dreamier  the  gloaming  grows. 

And  sinking  one  by  one,  like  lark-notes  from  the  sky, 
When  the  falcon's  shadow  saileth  across  the  open  shaw, 
Are  hushed  the  maidens*  voices,  as  cowering  down  they  lie 
In  the  flutter  of  their  sudden  awe. 

For,  from  the  air  above  and  the  grassy  ground  beneath, 

And  from  the  mountain-ashes  and  the  old  white-thorn  be- 
tween, 

A  power  of  faint*  enchantment  doth  through  their  beings 
breathe. 

And  they  sink  down  together  on  the  green. 

They  sink  together  silent,  and  stealing  side  to  side, 

They   fling  their   lovely   arms   o*er   their   drooping  necks   so 

fair. 
Then  vainly  strive  again  their  naked  arms  to  hide, 
For  their  shrinking  necks  again  are  bare. 

Thus   clasped   and   prostrate   all,    with   their   heads   together  < 

bowed. 
Soft  o'er  their  bosoms  beating — the  only  human  sound — 
They  hear  the  silky  footsteps  of  the  silent  fairy  crowd, 
Like  a  river  in  the  air  gliding  round. 


Nor  scream  can  any  raise,  nor  prayer  can  any  say. 
But  wild,  wild  the  terror  of  the  speechless  three — 
For  they  feel  fair  Anna  Grace  drawn  silently  away, 
By  whom  they  dare  not  look  to  see. 


They  feel  their  tresses  twine  with  her  parting  locks  of  gold, 
And  the  curls  elastic  falling,  as  her  head  withdraws. 
They  feel  her  sliding  arms  from  their  tranced  arms  unfold, 
But  they  dare  not  look  to  see  the  cause; 


140 


i 


For  heavy  on  their  senses  the  faint  enchantment  lies 
Through  all  that  night  of  anguish  and  perilous  amaze 
And  neither  fear  nor  wonder  can  ope  their  quivering  eyes, 
Or  their  limbs  from  the  cold  ground  raise; 

Till  out  of  night  the  earth  has  rolled  her  dewy  side, 
With  every  haunted  mountain  and  streamy  vale  below; 
When,  as  the  mist  dissolves  in  the  yellow  morningtide. 
The  maidens*  trance  dissolveth  so. 

Then  fly  the  ghastly  three  as  swiftly  as  they  may, 

And  tell  their  tale  of  sorrow  to  anxious  friends  in  vain — 

They  pined  away  and  died  within  the  year  and  day. 

And  ne*er  was  Anna  Grace  seen  again. 

Samuel  Ferguson. 


141 


The  Fairy  Lover 

TT  was  by  yonder  thorn  I  saw  the  fairy  host 

(O  low  night  wind,  O  wind  of  the  west!) 
My  love  rode  by,  there  was  gold  upon  his  brow. 
And  since  that  day  I  can  neither  eat  nor  rest. 

I  dare  not  pray  lest  I  should  forget  his  face 
(O  black  north  wind  blowing  cold  beneath  the  sky!) 
His  face  and  his  eyes  shine  between  me  and  the  sun: 
If  I  may  not  be  with  him  I  would  rather  die. 

They  tell  me  I  am  cursed  and  I  will  lose  my  soul, 

(O  red  wind  shrieking  o*er  the  thorn-grown  dun!) 

But  he  is  my  love  and  I  go  to  him  to-night, 

Who  rides  when  the  thorn  glistens  white  beneath  the  moon. 

He  will  call  my  name  and  lift  me  to  his  breast, 
(Blow  soft  O  wind  'neath  the  stars  of  the  south!) 
I  care  not  for  heaven  and  I  fear  not  hell 
If  I  have  but  the  kisses  of  his  proud  red  mouth. 

MoiREEN  Fox. 


142 


The  Warnings 

¥   WAS  milking  in  the  meadow  when  I  heard  the  Banshee 

keening: 
Little  birds  were  in  the  nest,  lambs  were  on  the  lea, 
Upon   the  brow  o'   the   Fairy-hill   a   round  gold   moon   was 

leaning — 
She  parted  from  the  esker  as  the  Banshee  keened  for  me. 

I  was  weaving  by  the  door-post,  when  I  heard  the  Death- 
watch  beating: 

And  I  signed  the  Cross  upon  me,  and  I  spoke  the  Name  of 
Three. 

High  and  fair,  through  cloud  and  air,  a  silver  moon  was  fleet- 
ing— 

But  the  night  began  to  darken  as  the  Death-watch  beat  for 
me. 

I  was  sleepless  on  my  pillow  when  I  heard  the  Dead  man 

calling. 
The  Dead  man  that  lies  drowned  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 
Down  in  the  West,  in  wind  and  mist,  a  dim  white  moon  was 

falling — 
Now  must  I  rise  and  go  to  him,  the  Dead  who  calls  on  me. 

Alice  Furlong. 


143 


The   Love-Talker 

T  MET  the  Love-Talker  one  eve  in  the  glen, 

He   was   handsomer   than    any  of   our   handsome   young 

men, 
His  eyes  vi^ere  blacker  than  the   sloe,  his  voice  sweeter  far 
Than  the  crooning  of  old  Kevin^s  pipes  beyond  in  Cbolnagar. 

I  was  bound  for  the  milking  with  a  heart  fair  and  free — ■ 
My  grief !  my  grief !  that  bitter  hour  drained  the  life  from 

me; 
I  thought  him  human  lover,  though  his  lips  on  mine  were 

cold, 
And  the  breath  of  death  blew  keen  on  me  within  his  hold. 

I  know  not  what  way  he  came,  no  shadow  fell  behind, 
But  all  the  sighing  rushes  swayed  beneath  a  faery  wind 
The  thrush  ceased  its  singing,  a  mist  crept  about, 
We  two  clung  together — with  the  world  shut  out. 

Beyond  the  ghostly  mist  I  could  hear  my  cattle  low. 
The  little  cow  from  Ballina,  clean  as  driven  snow. 
The  dun  cow  from  Kerry,  the  roan  from  Inisheer, 
Oh,  pitiful  their  calling — and  his  whispers  in  my  ear! 

His  eyes  were  a  fire;  his  words  were  a  snare; 
I  cried  my  mother's  name,  but  no  help  was  there; 
I  made  the  blessed  Sign;  then  he  gave  a  dreary  moan, 
A  wisp  of  cloud  went  floating  by,  and  I  stood  alone. 

Running  ever  through  my  head,  is  an  old-time  rune — 
**Who  meets  the  Love-Talker  must  weave  her  shroud  soon." 
My  mother's  face  is  furrowed  with  the  salt  tears  that  fall, 
But  the  kind  eyes  of  my  father  are  the  saddest  sight  of  all. 

144 


I  have  spun  the  fleecy  lint,  and  now  my  wheel  is  still, 
The  linen  length  is  woven  for  my  shroud  fine  and  chill, 
I  shall  stretch  me  on  the  bed  where  a  happy  maid  I  lay — 
Pray  for  the  soul  of  Maire  Og  at  dawning  of  the  day  1 

Ethna  Career y. 


145 


The  Green  Hunters 

'T'HE  Green  Hunters   went  ridin'; 

They  swept  down  the  night 
Through  hollows  of  shadow 
An'  pools   of  moonlight; 
Their  steeds'  shoes  of  soft  silver. 
They  blew  ne'er  a  horn, 
But  trampled  a  highway 
Among  the  ripe  corn. 

I  looked  from  the  half-door, 
They  never  saw  me, 
For  each  one  kept  wavin* 
A  slip  of  a  tree; 
'Twas  black  as  the  yewan, 
An'   whiter   than   may. 
An'  red  as  the  sally 
That  goes  the  wind's  way. 

The  Green  Hunter  came  ridin' 

Back  to  Gore  Wood; 

Though  they  heard  my  lips  movin', 

I  stood  where  I  stood. 

Oh,  what  do  they  call  him 

The  one  rode  behind? 

For  my  heart's  in  his  holdin'. 

My  mind  in  his  mind. 

Florence  M.  Wilson. 


146 


The  Others 

pROM  our  hidden  places 

By  a  secret  path, 
We  come  in  the  moonlight 
To  the  side  of  the  green  rath. 

There  the  night  through 

We  take  our  pleasure, 
Dancing  to  such  a  measure 

As  earth  never  knew. 

To  song  and  dance 

And  lilt  without  a  name, 
So  sweetly  breathed 

'T would  put  a  bird  to  shame. 

And  many  a  young  maiden 

Is  there,  of  mortal  birth. 
Her  young  eyes  laden 

With  dreams  of  earth. 

And  many  a  youth  entranced 

Moves  slowly  in  the  wildered  round. 
His  brave  lost  feet  enchanted. 

With  the  rhythm  of  faery  sound. 


147 


Music  so  forest  wild 

And  piercing  sweet  would  bring 
Silence  on  blackbirds  singing 

Their  best  in  the  ear  of  spring. 

And  now  they  pause  in  their  dancing, 

And  look  with  troubled  eyes, 
Earth  straying  children 

With  sudden  memory  wise. 

They  pause,  and  their  eyes  in  the  moonlight 

With  fairy  wisdom  cold, 
Grow  dim  and  a  thought  goes  fluttering 

In  the  hearts  no  longer  old. 

And  then  the  dream  forsakes  them. 

And  sighing,  they  turn  anew, 
As  the  whispering  music  takes  them, 

To  the  dance  of  the  elfin  crew. 

O  many  a  thrush  and  a  blackbird 
Would  fall  to  the  dewy  ground, 

And  pine  away  in  silence 
For  envy  of  such  a  sound. 

So  the  night  through 

In  our  sad  pleasure. 
We  dance  to  many  a  measure, 

That  earth  never  knew. 

Seumas  O'Sullivan. 


148 


The  Shadow  People 

/^LD   lame    Bridget    doesn't   hear 

Fairy  music  in  the  grass 
When   the   gloaming's   on   the   mere 
And  the  shadow  people  pass: 
Never  hears  their  slow,  grey  feet 
Coming  from  the  village  street 
Just  beyond  the  parson's  wall, 
Where  the  clover  globes  are  sweet 
And  the  mushroom's  parasol 
Opens  in  the  moonlit  rain. 
Every  night  I  hear  them  call 
From  their  long  and  merry  train. 
Old  lame  Bridget  says  to  me, 
"It's  just  your  fancy,  child." 
She  cannot  believe  I  see 
Laughing  faces  in  the  wild. 
Hands  that  twinkle  in  the  sedge 
Where  the  finny  minnows  quiver, 
Shaping  on  a  blue  wave's  ledge 
Bubble  foam  to  sail  the  river. 
And  the  sunny  hands  to  me 
Beckon  ever,  beckon  ever. 
Oh!  I  would  be  wild  and  free 
And  with  the  shadow  people  be. 
Francis  Ledwidge. 


149 


The  Fairies 

TTP  THE  airy  mountain, 
Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 
For  fear  of  little  men; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 
Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 
And  white  owl's  feather! 
Down  along  the  rocky  shore 
Some  make  their  home, 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 
Of  yellow  tide-foam ; 
Some  in  the  reeds 
Of  the  black  mountain  lake, 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs, 
All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-top 

The  old  King  sits; 

He  is  now  so  old  and  gray 

He's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 

With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 

On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses; 

Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold  starry  nights. 

To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 


150 


They  stole  little  Bridget 
For  seven  years  long; 
When  she  came  down  again 
Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back, 
Between  the  night  and  morrow, 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 
But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 
Deep  within  the  lake, 
On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves, 
Watching  till  she  wake. 

By  the  craggy  hill-side, 
Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees 
For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 
As  dig  them  up  in  spite, 
He  shall  find  their  sharpest  thorns 
In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 
Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 
For  fear  of  little  men; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 
Trooping  all   together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap. 
And  white  owl's  feather. 

William  Allingham. 


151 


PART   IV 
POEMS  OF  PLACE  AND  POEMS  OF  EXILE 


The  Triad  of  Things  Not  Decreed 

tTAPPY  the  stark  bare  wood  on  the  hill  of  Bree! 

To  its  grey  branch,  green  of  the  May:  song  after  sigh: 
Laughter  of  wings  where  the  wind  went  with  a  cry 
My  sorrow !     Song  after  sigh  comes  not  to  me. 

Happy  the  dry  wide  pastures  by  Ahenree  I 
To  them,  in  the  speckled  twilight,  dew  after  drouth: 
White  clover,  a  fragrance  in  the  dumb  beast's  mouth. 
My  sorrow!    Dew  after  drouth  comes  not  to  me. 

Happy  Oilean  Ada  in  the  ample  sea! 
To  its  yellow  shore,  long-billowed  flood  after  ebb: 
Flash  of  the  fish,  silver  in  the  sloak  weeds'  web, 
My  sorrow  I     Flood  after  ebb  comes  not  to  me. 

Alice  Furlong. 


155 


The  Starling!  Lake 

JLJY  SORROW  that  I  am  not  by  the  little  dun 

By  the  lake  of  the  starlings  at  Rosses  under  the  hill, 
And  the  larks  there,  singing  over  the  fields  of  dew. 
Or  evening  there  and  the  sedges  still. 
For  plain  I  see  now  the  length  of  the  yellow  sand. 
And  Lissadell  far  off  and  its  leafy  ways, 
And  the  holy  mountain  whose  mighty  heart 
Gathers  into  it  all  the  coloured  days. 
My  sorrow  that  I  am  not  by  the  little  dun 
By  the  lake  of  the  starlings  at  evening  when  all  is  still, 
And  still  in  whispering  sedges  the  herons  stand. 
'Tis  there  I  would  nestle  at  rest  till  the  quivering  moon 
Uprose  in  the  golden  quiet  over  the  hill. 

Seumas  O^Sullivan. 


156 


Bogac   Ban 

A  WOMAN  had  I  seen,  as  I  rode  by, 

Stacking  her  turf  and  chanting  an  old  song ; 
But  now  her  voice  came  to  me  like  a  cry- 
Wailing  an  old  immeasurable  wrong. 
Riding  the  road  thro'  Bogac  Ban. 

Like  a  grey  ribbon  over  the  dark  world, 
Lying  along  the  bog  that  rose  each  side, 
The  white  road  strayed  upon  the  earth,  and  curled, 
Staying  its  journey  where  the  hills  abide, 
Riding  the  road  thro*  Bogac  Ban. 

It  was  not  that  the  Night  had  laid  her  cloak 
About  the  valley,  going  thro*  the  sky, 
And  yet  a  dimness  like  a  distant  smoke 
Had  fallen  on  the  Earth  as  I  rode  by. 
Riding  the  road  thro'  Bogac  Ban. 

Sweeping  the  sides  of  the  mountains  gaunt  and  high. 
Floating  about  their  faces  in  the  pool, 
A  shadowy  presence  with  a  rustling  sigh 
Crept  thro'  the  valley  till  the  valley  was  full : 
My  horse's  hoofs  fell  softy  as  on  wool: 
Riding  the  road  thro'  Bogac  Ban. 

In  musical  measures  like  an  echo  dim 
The  hoisting  held  its  secret  path  unseen : 
Slaibh  Mor  looked  down  on  Mam,  and  Mam  to  him 
Looked  up,  with  Loch  nanEan  between: 
Riding  the  road  thro*  Bogac  Ban. 


157 


A  new  world  and  a  new  scene  mixed  its  power 
With  the  old  world  and  the  old  scene  of  Earth's  face 
A  doorway  had  been  folded  back  an  hour ; 
And  silver  lights  fell  with  a  secret  grace 
Where  I  endeavoured  the  white  path  to  trace, 
Riding  the  road  thro'  Bogac  Ban. 

Within  my  mind  a  sudden  joy  had  birth, 
For  I  had  found  an  infinite  company  there: 
The  hosting  of  the  companies  of  the  earth, 
The  hosting  of  the  companies  of  the  air, 
Treading  the  road  thro'  Bogac  Ban. 
The  white,  strange  road  thro'  Bogac  Ban. 

Darrell  Figgis. 


158 


Killarney 

TS  THERE  one  desires  to  hear 

If  within  the  shores  of  Eire 
Eyes  may  still  behold  the  scene 
Far  from  Fand's  enticements? 

Let  him  seek  the  southern  hills 
And  those  lakes  of  loveliest  water 
Where  the  richest  blooms  of  Spring 
Burn  to  reddest  Autumn: 
And  the  clearest  echo  sings 
Notes  a  goddess  taught  her. 

Ah !  'twas  very  long  ago, 

And  the  words  are  now  denied  her: 

But  the  purple  hillsides  know 

Still  the   tones   delightsome, 

And  their  breasts,  impassioned,  glow 

As  were  Fand  beside  them. 

And  though  many  an  isle  be  fair. 
Fairer  still  is  Innis fallen, 
Since  the  hour  Cuchullain  lay 
In  the  bower  enchanted. 
See !  the  ash  that  waves  to-day. 
Fand  its  grandsire  planted. 


fl 


159 


When  from  wave  to  mountain-top 
All  delight  thy  sense  bewilders, 
Thou  shalt  own  the  wonders  wrought 
Once  by  her  skilled  fingers, 
Still,  though  many  an  age  be  gone, 
Round  Killarney  lingers. 

William  Larminie. 
See  Note  Page  348. 


160 


The  Hills  of  Cualann 

TN  THE  youth  of  summer 

The  hills  of  Cualann 
Are  two  golden  horns, 
Two  breasts  of  childing, 
Two  tents  of  light 

In  the  ancient  winter 
They  are  two  rusted  swords, 
Two  waves  of  darkness, 
Two  moons  of  ice. 

Joseph  Campbell. 


161 


At  dan  Mor 

A  S  I  was  climbing  Ardan  Mor 

From  the  shore  of  Sheelin  lake, 
I  met  the  herons  coming  down 
Before  the  water's  wake. 

And  they  were  talking  in  their  flight 
Of  dreamy  ways  the  herons  go 
When  all  the  hills  are  withered  up 
Nor  any  waters  flow. 

Francis  Ledwidge. 


162 


Clonmacnoise 

TN  a  quiet  water'd  land,  a  land  of  roses, 

Stands  Saint  Kieran's  city  fair; 
And  the  warriors  of  Erin  in  their  famous  generations 

Slumber  there. 

There  beneath  the  dewy  hillside  sleep  the  noblest 

Of  the  clan  of  Conn, 
Each  below  his  stone  with  name  in  branching  Ogham 

And  the  sacred  knot  thereon. 

There  they  laid  to  rest  the  seven  Kfngs  of  Tara, 

There  the  sons  of  Cairbre  sleep — 
Battle-banners  of  the  Gael  that  in  Kieran's  plain  of  crosses 

Now  their  final  hosting  keep. 

And  in  Clonmacnoise  they  laid  the  men  of  Teflia, 

And  right  many  a  lord  of  Breagh ; 
Deep  the  sod  above  Clan  Creide  and  Clan  Conaill, 

Kind  in  hall  and  fierce  in  fray. 

Many  and  many  a  son  of  Conn  the  Hundred-fighter 

In  the  red  earth  lies  at  rest; 
Many  a  blue  eye  of  Clan  Colman  the  turf  covers, 
Many  a  swan-white  breast. 

Translated  by  T.  W.  Rolleston. 
See  Note  Page  349. 


163 


The  Little  Waves  of  Breffny 

'T'HE  grand  road  from  the  mountain  goes  shining  to  the  sea. 

Arid  there  is  traffic  in  it  and  many  a  horse  and  cart, 
But  the  little  roads  of  Cloonagh  are  dearer  far  to  me, 
And  the  little  roads  of  Cloonagh  go  rambling  through  my 
heart. 

A  great  storm  from  the  ocean  goes  shouting  o'er  the  hill, 
And  there  is  glory  in  it  and  terror  on  the  wind. 
But  the  haunted  air  of  twilight  is  very  strange  and  still. 
And  the  little  winds  of  twilight  are  dearer  to  my  mind. 

The  great  waves  of  the  Atlantic  sweep  storming  on  their  way. 
Shining  green  and  silver  with  the  hidden  herring  shoal, 
But  the  Little  Waves  of  Breffny  have  drenched  my  heart  in 

spray,  ^ 
And  the  Little  Waves  of  Breffny  go  stumbling  through  my 

soul. 

Eva  Gore-Booth. 


164 


Muckish  Mountain    {The  Pig's  Back) 

T  IKE  a  sleeping  swine  upon  the  skyline, 

Muckish,  thou  art  shadowed  out, 
Grubbing  up  the  rubble  of  the  ages 
With  your  broken,  granite  snout. 

Muckish,  greatest  pig  in  Ulster's  oakwoods, 
Littered  out  of  rock  and  fire. 
Deep  you  thrust  your  mottled  flanks  for  cooling 
Underneath  the  peaty  mire. 

Long  before  the  Gael  was  young  in  Ireland, 
You  were  ribbed  and  old  and  grey, 
Muckish,  you  have  long  outstayed  his  staying. 
You  have  seen  him  swept  away. 

Muckish,  you  will  not  forget  the  people 

Of  the  laughing  speech  and  eye. 

They  who  gave  you  name  of  Pig-back-mountain 

And  the  Heavens  for  a  sty! 

Shane  Leslie. 


168 


The  Bog  Lands 

'X'HE  purple  heather  is  the  cloak 
God  gave  the  bogland  brown, 
But  man  has  made  a  pall  o'  smoke 
To  hide  the  distant  town. 

Our  lights  are  long  and  rich  in  change, 
Unscreened  by  hill  or  spire, 
From  primrose  dawn,  a  lovely  range. 
To  sunset's  farewell  fire. 

No  morning  bells  have  we  to  wake 
Us  with  their  monotone. 
But  windy  calls  of  quail  and  crake 
Unto  our  beds  are  blown. 

The  lark's  wild  flourish  summons  us 
To  work  before  the  sun; 
At  eve  the  heart's  lone  Angelus 
Blesses  our  labour  done. 

We  cleave  the  sodden,  shelving  bank 
In  sunshine  and  in  rain. 
That  men  by  winter-fires  may  thank 
The  wielders  of  the  slane. 

Our  lot  is  laid  beyond  the  crime 
That  sullies  idle  hands; 
So  hear  we  through  the  silent  time 
God  speaking  sweet  commands. 


166 


Brave  joys  we  have  and  calm  delight — 
For  which  tired  wealth  may  sigh — 
The  freedom  of  the  fields  of  light, 
The  gladness  of  the  sky. 

And  we  have  music,  oh,  so  quaint ! 
The  curlew  and  the  plover, 
To  tease  the  mind  with  pipings  faint 
No  memory  can  recover; 

The  reeds  that  pine  about  the  pools 
In  wind  and  windless  weather; 
The  bees  that  have  no  singing- rules 
Except  to  buzz  together. 

And  prayer  is  here  to  give  us  sight 

To  see  the  purest  ends; 

Each  evening  through  the  brown-turf  light 

The  Rosary  ascends. 

And  all  night  long  the  cricket  sings 
The  drowsy  minutes  fall, — 
The  only  pendulum  that  swings 
Across  the  crannied  wall. 

Then  we  have  rest,  so  sweet,  so  good, 
The  quiet  rest  you  crave; 
The  long,  deep  bogland  solitude 
That  fits  a  forest's  grave; 

The  long,  strange  stillness,  wide  and  deep. 
Beneath  God's  loving  hand. 
Where,  wondering  at  the  grace  of  sleep, 
The  Guardian  Angels  stand. 

William  A.  Byrne. 


167 


The  Bells  of  Shandon 

"ITiriTH  deep  affection  and  recollection 

I  often  think  of  the  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would,  in  days  of  childhood, 

Fling  round  my  cradle  their  magic  spells. 
On  this  I  ponder,  wherever  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder,  sweet  Cork,  of  thee, 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

I  have  heard  bells  chiming  full  many  a  clime  in, 

Tolling  sublime  in  cathedral  shrine; 
While  at  a  glib  rate  brass  tongues  would  vibrate. 

But  all  their  music  spoke  nought  to  thine ; 
For  memory,  dwelling  on  each  proud  swelling 
Of  the  belfry  knelling  its  bold  notes  free. 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  River  Lee. 

I  have  heard  bells  tolling  "old  Adrian's  mole"  in. 

Their  thunder  rolling  from  the  Vatican, 
With  cymbals  glorious,  swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets  of  Notre  Dame; 
But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter  than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber,  pealing  solemnly. 
Oh!  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  River  Lee. 


168 


There's  a  bell  in  Moscow,  while  on  tower  and  Kiosk,  0 1 

In  St.  Sophia  the  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  the  air  calls  men  to  prayer 

From  the  tapering  summit  of  tall  minarets. 
Such  empty  phantom  I  freely  grant  'em, 
But  there's  an  anthem  more  dear  to  me: 
'Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  River  Lee. 

Francis  Sylvester  Mahony. 
(Father  Prout.) 


169 


Colum-Cille's  Farewell  to  Ireland 

A  LAS  for  the  voyage,  O  High  King  of  Heaven, 

Enjoined  upon  me, 
For  that  I  on  the  red  plain  of  bloody  Cooldrevin 
Was  present  to  see. 

How  happy  the  son  is  of  Dima;  no  sorrow 

For  him  is  designed, 
He  is  having,  this  hour,  round  his  own  hill  in  Durrow, 

The  wish  of  his  mind. 

The  sounds  of  the  winds  in  the  elms,  like  strings  of 

A  harp  being  played, 
The  note  of  a  blackbird  that  claps  with    the  wings  of 

Delight   in  the   shade. 

With  him  in  Ros-Grencha  the  cattle  are  lowing 

At  earliest  dawn, 
On  the  brink  of  the  summer  the  pigeons  are  cooing 

And  doves  in  the  lawn. 

Three  things  am  I  leaving  behind  me,  the  very 

Most  dear  that  I  know, 
Tir-Leedach  I'm  leaving,  and  Durrow  and  Derry; 

Alas,  I  must  go! 

Yet  my  visit  and  feasting  with  Comgall  have  eased  me 

At  Cainneach's  right  hand. 
And  all  but  thy  government,   Eire,  have  pleased  me. 
Thou  waterful  land. 

Translated  by  Douglas  Hyde. 
See  Note  Page  349. 


170 


John  O'Dwyer  of  the  Glen 

IILITHE  the  bright  dawn  found  me, 

Rest  with  strength  had  crown'd  me, 
Sweet  the  birds  sang  around  me 
Sport  was  their  toil. 

The  horn   its  clang   was   keeping, 
Forth  the  fox  was  creeping, 
Round  each  dame  stood  weeping, 
O'er  the  prowler's  spoil. 

Hark!  the  foe  is  calling, 
Fast  the  woods  are  falling, 
Scenes  and  sights  appalling 
Mark  the  wasted  soil. 

War  and  confiscation 
Curse  the  fallen  nation; 
Gloom  and  desolation 
Shade  the  lost  land  o'er. 

Chill  the  winds  are  blowing. 
Death  aloft  is  going, 
Peace  or  hope  seems  growing 
For  our  race  no  more. 

Hark!  the  foe  is  calling, 
Fast  the  woods  are  falling. 
Scenes  and  sights  appalling 
Throng  the  blood-stained  shore 

Nobles  once  high-hearted. 
From  their  homes  have  parted. 
Scattered,   scared,   and   started 
By  a  base-born  band. 
171 


Spots  that  once  were  cheering, 
Girls  beloved,  endearing, 
Friends  from  whom  Tm  steering, 
Take  this  parting  tear. 
Translated  by  Thomas  FuRLONa 
See  Note  Page  349. 


172 


A  Farewell  to  Patrick  Sars field,  Earl  of  Lucan 

PAREWELL,  0  Patrick  Sarsfield,  may  luck  be  on  your  path  ! 
Your  camp  is  broken  up,  your  work  is  marred  for  years; 
But  you  go  to  kindle  into  flame  the  King  of  France's  wrath, 
Though  you  leave  sick  Eire  in  tears — 

Och,  ochone ! 


May  the  white  sun  and  moon  rain  glory  on  your  head, 
All  hero  as  you  are,  and  holy  man  of  God ! 
To  you  the  Saxons  owe  a  many  an  hour  of  dread 
In  the  land  you  have  often  trod — 

Och,  ochone ! 

The  Son  of  Mary  guard,  and  bless  you  to  the  end ! 
Tis  altered  is  the  time  when  your  legions  were  astir, 
When  at  Cullen  you  were  hailed  as  conqueror  and  friend. 
And  you  crossed  Narrow-water  near  Birr, — 

Och,  ochone! 

I'll  journey  to  the  north,  over  mount,  moor,  and  wave; 
*Twas  there  I  first  beheld  drawn  up,  in  file  and  line, 
The  brilliant  Irish  hosts;  they  were  bravest  of  the  brave. 
But  alas,  they  scorned  to  combine — 

Och,  ochone ! 

I  saw  the  royal  Boyne  when  his  billows  flashed  with  blood 
I  fought  at  Graine  Og,  when  a  thousand  horsemen  fell; 
On  the  dark  empurpled  plain  of  Aughrim,  too,  I  stood, 
On  the  plain  by  Tubberdonny's  well— 

Och.  ochone  I 


173 


To  the  heroes  of  Limerick,  the  City  of  the  Fights, 
Be  my  best  blessing  borne  on  the  wings  of  the  air; 
We  had  card-playing  there  o'er  our  camp  fires  at  night, 
And  the  Word  of  Life,  too,  and  prayer — 

Och,  ochonel 

But  for  you,  Londerderry,  may  plague  smite  and  slay 
Your  people!     May  ruin  desolate  you  stone  by  stone! 
Through  you  there's  many  a  gallant  youth  lies  coffinless  to- 
day 
With  the  winds  for  mourners  alone — 

Och,  ochone! 

I  clomb  the  high  hill  on  a  fair  summer  noon. 
And  saw  the  Saxons  muster,  clad  in  armour  blinding  bright: 
Oh,  rage  withheld  my  hand,  or  gunsman  and  dragoon 
Should  have  supped  with  Satan  that  night! — 

Och,  ochone! 

How  many  a  noble  soldier,  how  many  a  cavalier. 
Careered  along  this  road,  seven  fleeting  weeks  ago. 
With  silver-hilted  sword,  with  matchlock  and  with  spear, 
Who  now,  mavrone !  lieth  low — 

Och,  ochone  I 

All  hail  to  thee,  Beinn  Eidir  but  ah,  on  thy  brow 
I  see  a  limping  soldier,  who  battled  and  who  bled 
Last  year  in  the  cause  of  the  Stuart,  though  now 
The  worthy  is  begging  his  bread — 

Och,  ochone! 


174 


And  Diarmid  oh,  Diarmid  he  perished  in  the  strife; 
His  head  it  was  spiked  upon  a  halberd  high; 
His  colours  they  were  trampled:  he  had  no  chance  of  life 
If  the  Lord  God  Himself  stood  by! — 

Och,  ochonel 

But  most,  oh  my  woe  I  lament  and  lament 
For  the  ten  valient  heroes  who  dwelt  nigh  the  Nore, 
And  my  three  blessed  brothers;  they  left  me  and  went 
To  the  wars,  and  returned  no  more — 

Och,  ochone! 

On  the  bridge  of  the  Boyne  was  our  first  overthrow; 
By  Slaney  the  next,  for  we  battled  without  rest; 
The  third  was  at  Aughrim.     O  Eire!  thy  woe 
Is  a  sword  in  my  bleeding  breast — 

Och,  ochonel 

Oh,  the  roof  above  our  heads,  it  was  barbarously  fired. 
While  the  black  Orange  guns  blazed  and  bellowed  around! 
And  as  volley  followed  volley,  Colonel  Mitchel  inquired 
Whether  Lucan  still  stood  his  ground? — 

Och,  ochone! 

But  O'Kelly  still  remains,  to  defy  and  to  toil. 
He  has  memories  that  hell  won't  permit  him  to  forget. 
And  a  sword  that  will  make  the  blue  blood  flow  like  oil 
Upon  many  an  Aughrim  yet! — 

Och,  ochone! 

And  I  never  shall  believe  that  my  fatherland  can  fall 
With  the  Burkes,  and  the  Dukes,  and  the  son  of  Royal  James, 
And  Talbot,  the  captain,  and  Sarsfield  above  all. 
The  beloved  of  damsels  and  dames — 

Och,  ochone! 
Translated  by  James  Clarence  Mangan. 
See  Note  Page  349. 


175 


Fontenoy.     1745 

I. — Before  the  Battle;  night. 

/^H,  BAD  the  march,  the  weary  march,  beneath  these  alien 

skies, 
But  good  the  night,  the  friendly  night,  that  soothes  our  tired 

eyes. 
And  bad  the  war,  the  tedious  war,  that  keeps  us  sweltering 

here. 
But  good  the  hour,  the  friendly  hour,  that  brings  the  battle 

near. 
That  brings  us  on  the  battle,  that  summons  to  their  share 
The  homeless  troops,  the  banished  men,  the  exiled  sons  of 

Clare. 

Oh,  little  Corca  Bascinn,  the  wild,  the  bleak,  the  fair! 
Oh,  little  stony  pastures,  whose  flowers  are  sweet,  if  rare  I 
Oh,  rough  the  rude  Atlantic,  the  thunderous,  the  wide. 
Whose  kiss  is  like  a  soldier's  kiss  which  will  not  be  denied! 
The  whole  night  long  we  dream  of  you,  and  waking  think 

we're  there, — 
Vain  dream,  and  foolish  waking,  we  never  shall  see  Clare. 

The  wind  is  wild  to-night,  there's  battle  in  the  air; 
The  wind  is  from  the  west,  and  it  seems  to  blow  from  Clare. 
Have  you  nothing,  nothing  for  us,  loud  brawler  of  the  night? 
No  news  to  warm  our  heart-strings,  to  speed  us  through  the 

fight? 
In   this   hollow,   star-pricked   darkness,   as   in   the   sun's   hot 

glare. 
In  sun-tide,  in  star-tide,  we  thirst,  we  starve  for  Clare! 


176 


Hark!  yonder  through  the  darkness  one  distant  rat-tat-tat! 
The  old  foe  stirs  out  there,  God  bless  his  soul  for  that! 
The  old   foe  musters  strongly,  he's  coming  on  at  last, 
And  Clare's  Brigade  may  claim  its  own  wherever  blows  fall 

fast. 
Send  us,  ye  western  breezes,  our  full,  our  rightful  share, 
For  Faith,  and  Fame,  and  Honour,  and  the  ruined  hearths  of 

Clare. 

Emily  Lawless. 
See  Note  Page  350. 


177 


II. — After  the  Battle;  early  dawn,  Clare  coast. 

|L|ARY  MOTHER,  shield  us !    Say,  what  men  are  ye, 

Sweeping  past  so  swiftly  on  this  morning  sea?" 
"Without  sails  or  rowlocks  merrily  we  glide 
Home  to  Corca  Bascinn  on  the  brimming  tide." 

"Jesus  save  you,  gentry!  why  are  you  so  white, 
Sitting  all  so  straight  and  still  in  this  misty  light?" 
"Nothing  ails  us,  brother;  joyous  souls  are  we, 
Sailing  home  together,  pn  the  morning  sea." 

"Cousins,  friends,  and  kinsfolk,  children  of  the  land, 
Here  we  come  together,  a  merry,  rousing  band; 
Sailing  home  together  from  the  last  great  fight, 
Home  to  Clare  from  Fontenoy,  in  the  morning  light. 

"Men  of  Corca  Bascinn,  men  of  Clare's  Brigade, 
Harken  stony  hills  of  Clare,  hear  the  charge  we  made; 
See  us  come  together,  singing  from  the  fight. 
Home  to  Corca  Bascinn,  in  the  morning  light." 

Emily  Lawless. 


178 


In  Spain 

yOUR  sky  is  a  hard  and  a  dazzling  blue, 

Your  earth  and  sands  are  a  dazzling  gold, 
And  gold  or  blue  is  the  proper  hue, 
You  say  for  a  swordsman  bold. 

In  the  land  I  have  left  the  skies  are  cold. 

The  earth  is  green,  the  rocks  are  bare, 

Yet  the  devil  may  hold  all  your  blue  and  your  gold 

Were  I  only  once  back  there! 

Emily  Lawless. 


179 


In  Spain:  Drinking  Song 

li^ANY  are  praised,  and  some  are  fair, 

But  the  fairest  of  all  is  She, 
And  he  who  misdoubts  let  him  have  a  care, 
For  her  liegemen  sworn  are  we ! 
Then  Ho!   for  the  land  that  is  green  and  grey. 
The  land  of  all  lands  the  best, 
For  the  South  is  bright  and  the  East  is  gay, 
But  the  sun  shines  last  in  the  West, 

The  West ! 
The  sun  shines  last  in  the  West! 

A  queen  is  she,  though  a  queen  forlorn, 
A  queen  of  tears  from  her  birth, 
Ragged  and  hungry,  woeful  and  worn, 
Yet  the  fairest  Fair  on  the  earth. 

Then  here's  to  the  land  that  is  green  and  grey, 
The  land  of  all  lands  the  best! 
For  the  South  is  bright,  and  the  East  is  gay, 
But  the  sun  shines  last  in  the  West, 

The  West ! 
The  sun  shines  last  in  the  West! 

Emily  Lawless. 


180 


The  Battle  Eve  of  the  Irish  Brigade 

T^HE  mess-tent  is   full,  and  the  glasses  are   set, 

And  the   gallant   Count   Thomond   is  president  yet; 
The  vetVan  arose,  like  an  uplifted  lance. 
Crying — "Comrades,  a  health  to  the  monarch  of  France!" 
With  bumpers  and  cheers  they  have  done  as  he  bade 
For  King  Louis  is  loved  by  the  Irish  Brigade. 

"A  health  to  King  James,*'  and  they  bent  as  they  quaffed, 

"Here's  to   George   the   Elector,"   and   fiercely  they  laughed, 

"Good  luck  to  the  girls  we  wooed  long  ago. 

Where   Shannon,   and   Barrow,   and   Blackwater   flow;" 

"God  prosper  Old  Ireland," — you'd  think  them  afraid, 

So  pale  grew  the  chiefs  of  the  Irish  Brigade. 

"But  surely,  that  light  cannot  be  from  our  lamp 

And  that  noise — are  they  all  getting  drunk  in  the  camp?" 

"Hurrah !  boys,  the  morning  of  battle  is  come. 

And  the  generale's  beating  on  many  a  drum." 

So  they  rush  from  the  revel  to  join  the  parade: 

For  the  van  is  the  right  of  the  Irish  Brigade. 

They  fought  as  they  revelled,  fast,  fiery  and  true. 
And,  though  victors,  they  left  on  the  field  not  a  few; 
And  they,  who  survived,  fought  and  drank  as  of  yore. 
But  the  land  of  their  heart's  hope  they  never  saw  more; 
For  in  far  foreign  fields,   from  Dunkirk  to  Belgrade, 
Lie  the  soldiers  and  chiefs  of  the  Irish  Brigade. 

Thomas  Davis. 


181 


The  Fair  Hills  of  Ireland 

A    PLENTEOUS  place  is  Ireland  for  hospitable  cheer, 

Uileacdn  dubh  0! 
Where  the  wholesome  fruit  is  bursting  from  the  yellow  bar- 
ley ear; 

Uileacdn  dubh  0! 
There  is  honey  in  the  trees  where  her  misty  vales  expand, 
And  her  forest  paths  in  summer  are  by  falling  waters  fanned ; 
There  is  dew  at  high  noontide  there,  and  springs  i*  the  yellow 

sand, 
On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

Curled  he  is  and  ringleted,  and  plaited  to  the  knee, 

Uileacdn  dubh  Of 
Each  captain  who  comes  sailing  across  the  Irish  sea; 

Uileacdn  dubh  0! 
And   I  will  make  my  journey,  if  life  and  health  but  stand 
l^^nto  that  pleasant  country,  that  fresh  and  fragrant  strand, 
Aad    leave    your   boasted   braveries,    your   wealth    and    high 

comm.and, 
For  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

Ltarge  and  profitable  are  the  stacks  upon  the  ground, 

Uileacdn  dubh  0! 
The  butter  and  the  cream  do  wonderously  abound, 

Uileacdn  dubh  0! 


182 


The  cresses  on  the  water  and  the  sorrels  are  at  hand, 

And  the  cuckoo's  calling  daily  his  note  of  music  bland 

And  the  bold  thrush  sings  so  bravely  his  song  i'  the  forests 

grand, 
On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

Translated  by  Samuel  Ferguson. 
See  Note  Page  350. 


183 


The  Winding  Banks  of  Erne 

A  DIEU  to  Belashanny,  where  I  was  bred  and  born ; 

Go  where  I  may  I'll  think  of  you,  as  sure  as  night  and 

morn: 
The  kindly  spot,  the  friendly  town,  where  every  one  is  known, 
And  not  a  face  in  all  the  place  but  partly  seems  my  own; 
There's  not  a  house  or  window,  there's  not  a  field  or  hill, 
But  east  or  west,  in  foreign  lands,  I'll  recollect  them  still; 
I  leave  my  warm  heart  with  you,  though  my  back  I'm  forced 

to  turn — 
Adieu  to  Belashanny,  and  the  winding  banks  of  Erne! 

No  more  on  pleasant  evenings  we'll  saunter  down  the  Mall, 
W!ien  the  trout  is  rising  to  the  fly,  the  salmon  to  the  fall. 
The  boat  comes  straining  on  her  net,  and  heavily  she  creeps. 
Cast  off,  cast  off — she  feels  the  oars,  and  to  her  berth  she 

sweeps ; 
Now  fore  and  aft  keep  hauling,  and  gathering  up  the  clew, 
Till  a  silver  wave  of  salmon  rolls  in  among  the  crew 
Then  they  may  sit,  with  pipes  a-lit,  and  many  a  joke  and 

yarn: 
Adieu  to  Belashanny,  and  the  winding  banks  of  Erne  I 

The  music  of  the  waterfall,  the  mirror  of  the  tide  , 
When  all  the  green-hill'd  harbour  is  full  from  side  to  side. 
From  Portnasun  to  Bulliebawns,  and  round  the  Abbey  Bay, 
From  rocky  Inis  Saimer  to  Coolnargit  sandhills  grey; 
While  far  upon  the  southern  line,  to  guard  it  like  a  wall. 
The  Leitrim  mountains  clothed  in  blue  gaze  calmly  over  all. 
And  watch  the  ship  sail  up  or  down,  the  red  flag  at  her 

stern — 
Adieu  to  these,  adieu  to  all  the  winding  banks  of  Erne! 


184 


Farewell  to  you,  Kildoney  lads,  and  them  that  pull  an  oar, 

A  lugsail  set,  or  haul  a  net,  from  the  point  to  Mullaghmore; 

From  Killybegs  to  bold  Slieve-League,  that  ocean  mountain 
steep, 

Six  hundred  yards  in  air  aloft,  six  hundred  in  the  deep; 

From  Dooran  to  the  Fairy  Bridge,  and  round  by  Tullen 
strand. 

Level  and  long,  and  white  with  waves,  where  gull  and  curlew 
stand  ; 

Head  out  to  sea,  when  on  your  lee  the  breakers  you  dis- 
cern— 

Adieu  to  all  the  billowy  coast  and  the  winding  banks  of 
of  Erne  I 

Farewell,  Coolmore,  Bundoran  I  and  your  summer  crowds  that 

run 
From  inland  homes  to  see  with  joy  the  Atlantic  setting  sun; 
To   breathe   the   buoyant    salted    air,    and    sport    among   the 

waves ; 
To    gather    shells   on   sandy   beach,   and   tempt   the   gloomy 

caves ; 
To  watch  the  flowing,  ebbing  tide,  the  boats,  the  crabs,  the 

fish; 
Young  men  and  maids  to  meet  and  smile,  and  form  a  tender 

wish; 
The  sick  and  old  in  search  of  health,  for  all  things  have  their 

turn — 
And  I  must  quit  my  native  shore  and  the  winding  banks  of 

Erne! 


185 


Farewell  to  every  white  cascade  from  the  Harbour  to  Relleek, 

And  every  pool  where  fins  may  rest,  and  ivy-shaded  creek; 

The  sloping  fields,  the  lofty  rocks,  where  ash  and  holly 
grow, 

The  one  split  yew-tree  gazing  on  the  curving  flood  below; 

The  Lough  that  winds  through  islands  under  Turaw  moun- 
tain green 

And  Castle  Caldwell's  stretching  woods,  with  tranquil  bays 
between  ; 

And  Breesie  Hill,  and  many  a  pond  among  the  heath  and 
fern — 

For  I  must  say  adieu — adieu  to  the  winding  banks  of  Erne ! 

The  thrush  will  call  through  Camlin  groves  the  live-long  sum- 
mer day; 

The  waters  run  by  mossy  cliff,  and  banks  with  wild  flowers 
gay; 

The  girls  will  bring  their  work  and  sing  beneath  a  twisted 
thorn. 

Or  stray  with  sweethearts  down  the  path  among  the  growing 
corn; 

Along  the  riverside  they  go,  where  I  have  often  been — 

O,  never  shall  I  see  again  the  days  that  I  have  seen ! 

A  thousand  chances  are  to  one  I  never  may  return — 

Adieu  to  Belashanny,  and  the  winding  banks  of  Erne ! 

Adieu  to  evening  dances,  where  merry  neighbours  meet, 
And  the  fiddle   says   to  boys   and  girls,   "get  up   and   shake 
your  feet!" 


186 


To  shanachas  and  wise  old  talk  of  Erin's  days  gone  by 
Who  trenched  the  rath  on  such  a  hill,  and  where  the  bones  may 

He 
Of    saint,    or   king,    or   warrior   chief;    with    tales    of    fairy 

power, 
And  tender  ditties  sweetly  sung  to  pass  the  twilight  hour. 
The  mournful  song  of  exile  is  now  for  me  to  learn — 
Adieu,  my  dear  companions  on  the  winding  banks  of  Erne! 

Now  measure  from  the  Commons  down  to  each  end  of  the 

Purt, 
Round  the  Abbey,  Moy,  and  Knather, — I  wish  no  one  any 

hurt; 
The  Main  Street,  Back  Street,  College  Lane,  the  Mall  and 

Portnasun, 
If  any  foes  of  mine  are  there,  I  pardon  every  one. 
I  hope  that  man  and  womankind  will  do  the  same  by  me ; 
For  my  heart  is  sore  and  heavy  at  voyaging  the  sea. 
My  loving  friends  I'll  bear  in  mind,  and  often  fondly  turn 
To  think  of  Belashanny  and  the  winding  banks  of  Erne! 

If  ever  I'm  a  money'd  man,  I  mean,  please  God,  to  cast 
My  golden  anchor  in  the  place  where  youthful  years  were 

past; 
Though  heads  that  now  are  black  and  brown  must  meanwhile 

gather  grey. 
New  faces  rise  by  every  hearth,  and  old  ones  drop  away — 
Yet  dearer  still  that  Irish  hill  than  all  the  world  beside; 
It's  home,  sweet  home,  where'er  I  roam,  through  lands  and 

waters  wide. 
And  if  the  Lord  allows  me,  I  surely  will  return 
To  my  native  Belashanny,  and  the  winding  banks  of  Erne  I 

William  Allingham. 


187 


Corrymeela 

/^VER  here  in  England  I'm  helpin'  wi'  the  hay, 

And  I  wisht  I  was  in  Ireland  the  livelong  day; 
Weary  on  the  English  hay,  an'  sorra  take  the  wheat! 
Och  I  Corrymeela,  an'  the  blue  sky  over  it. 

There's  a  deep  dumb  river  flowin'  by  beyont  the  heavy  trees, 
This  livin*  air  is  moithered  wi'  the  hummin'  o*  the  bees ; 
I  wisht  I'd  hear  the  Claddagh  burn  go  runnin'  through  the 

heat, 
Past  Corrymeela,  wi'  the  blue  sky  over  it. 

The  people  that's  in  England  is  richer  nor  the  Jews, 
There's  not  the  smallest  young  gossoon  but  thravels  in  his 

shoes ! 
I'd  give  the  pipe  between  me  teeth  to   see  a  barefut  child, 
Och  I   Corrymeela,  an'  the  low  south  wind. 

Here's  hands  so  full  o'  money  an'  hearts  so  full  o'  care. 
By  the  luck  o'  love!     I'd  still  go  light  for  all  I  did  go  bare. 
"God  save  ye,  colleen  dhas,"  I  said;  the  girl  she  thought  me 

wild! 
Fair  Corrymeela,  an'  the  low  south  wind. 

D'ye  mind  me  now,  the  song  at  night  is  mortial  hard  td 

raise. 
The  girls  are  heavy  goin'  here,  the  boys  are  ill  to  plase; 
When   ones't    I'm    out   this    workin'    hive,    'tis    I'll '  be   back 

again — 
Aye,  Corrymeela,  in  the  same  soft  rain. 


188 


The  puff  o'  smoke   from  one   ould  roof  before  an   English 

town! 
For  a  shaugh  wid  Andy  Feelan  here  I'd  give  a  silver  crown, 
For  a  curl  o'  hair  like  Mollie's  ye'll  ask  the  like  in  vain, 
Sweet  Corrymeela,  an'  the  same  soft  rain. 

MoiRA  O'Neill. 


189 


The  Irish  Peasant  Girl 

CHE  lived  beside  the  Anner, 

At  the  foot  of  Slievna-man, 
A  gentle  peasant  girl, 
With  mild  eyes  like  the  dawn; 
Her  lips  were  dewy  rosebuds; 
Her  teeth  of  pearls  rare ; 
And  a  snow-drift  'neath  a  beechen  bough 
Her  neck  and  nut-brown  hair. 

How  pleasant  'twas  to  meet  her 

On  Sunday,  when  the  bell 

Was  filling  with  its  mellow  tones 

Lone  wood  and  grassy  dell 

And  when  at  eve  young  maidens 

Strayed  the  river  bank  along, 

The  widow's  brown-haired  daughter 

Was  loveliest  of  the  throng. 

O  brave,  brave  Irish  girls — 
We  well  may  call  you  brave! — 
Sure  the  least  of  all  your  perils 
Is  the   stormy  ocean   wave, 
When  you  leave  our  quiet  valleys, 
And  cross  the  Atlantic's  foam, 
To  hoard  your  hard-won  earnings 
For  the  helpless  ones  at  home. 


190 


*Write  word  to  my  own  dear  mother- 
Say,  we'll  meet  with  God  above; 
And  tell  my  little  brothers 
I  send  them  all  my  love ; 
May  the  angels  ever  guard  them. 
Is  their  dying  sister's  prayer" — 
And  folded  in  a  letter 
Was  a  braid  of  nut-brown  hair. 

Ah,  cold  and  well-nigh  callous. 
This  weary  heart  has  grown 
For  thy  helpless  fate,  dear  Ireland, 
And  for  sorrows  of  my  own ; 
Yet  a  tear  my  eye  will  moisten*. 
When  by  Anner  side  I  stray. 
For  the  lily  of  the  mountain  foot 
That  withered  far  away. 

Charles  Joseph  Kickham. 


191 


The  County  of  Mayo 

QN   THE  deck  of   Patrick  Lynch's  boat  I   sat  in  woeful 

plight, 
Through  my  sighing  all  the  weary  day,  and  weeping  all  the 

night, 
Were  it  not  that  full  of  sorrow  from  my  people  forth  I  go^ 
By  the  blessed  sun!  'tis  royally  I*d  sing  thy  praise.  Mayo! 

When   I   dwelt  at  home  in  plenty,   and  my  gold   did  much 

abound, 
In  the  company  of  fair  young  maids  the  Spanish  ale  went 

round — 
Tis  a  bitter  change  from  those  gay  days  that  now  Fm  forced 

to  go, 
And  must  leave  my  bones  in  Santa  Cruz,  far  from  my  own 

Mayo. 

They  are  altered  girls  in  Irrul  now;  'tis  proud  they're  grown 

and  high. 
With  their  hair-bags   and  their  top-knots — for  I  pass   their 

buckles  by; 
But  it's  little  now  I  heed  their  airs,  for  God  will  have  it  so, 
That  I  must  depart  for  foreign  lands,  and  leave  my  sweet 

Mayo. 

Translated  by  George  Fox. 


192 


PART   V 
SATIRES  AND  LAMENTS 


On  Himself 

/^N  RAINY  days  alone  I  dine 

Upon  a  chick  and  pint  of  wine. 
On  rainy  days  I  dine  alone 
And  pick  my  chicken  to  the  bone ; 
But  this  my  servants  much  enrages, 
No  scraps  remain  to  save  board-wages. 
In  weather  fine  I  nothing  spend, 
But  often  spunge  upon  a  friend; 
Yet,  where  he's  not  so  rich  as  I, 
I  pay  my  club,  and  so  good-bye. 
Jonathan  Swift. 


195 


On  An  Ill-Managed  House 

T   ET  me  thy  properties  explain: 
A  rotten  cabin  dropping  rain: 
Chimneys,  with  scorn  rejecting  smoke; 
Stools,  tables,  chairs,  and  bedsteads  broke. 
Here  elements  have  lost  their  uses, 
Air  ripens  not,  nor  earth  produces : 
In  vain  we  make  poor  Sheelah  toil, 
Fire  will  not  roast,  nor  water  boil. 
Through  all  the  valleys,  hills,  and  plains. 
The  Goddess  Want,  in  triumph  reigns : 
And  her  chief  officers  of  state. 
Sloth,  Dirt,  and  Theft,  around  her  wait. 
Jonathan  Swift. 


196 


On  the  World 

Vl^ITH  a  whirl  of  thoughts  oppressed, 

I  sunk  from  reverie  to  rest. 
A  horrid  vision  seized  my  head, 
I  saw  the  graves  give  up  their  dead ! 
Jove,  arm'd  with  terrors,  bursts  the  skies, 
And  thunder  roars  and  lightning  flies ! 
Amazed,  confused,  its  fate  unknown, 
The  world  stands  trembling  at  his  throne ! 
While  each  pale  sinner  hung  his  head, 
Jove,  nodding,  shook  the  heavens,  and  said : 
"Offending  race  of  human  kind. 
By  nature,  reason,  learning,  blind; 
You  who,  through  frailty,  stepped  aside; 
And  you,  who  never  fell  from  pride: 
You  who  in  different  sects  were  shamm'd, 
And  come  to  see  each  other  damn'd ; 
(So  some  folk  told  you,  but  they  knew 
No  more  of  Jove's  designs  than  you;) 
— The  world's  mad  business  now  is  o'er. 
And  I  resent  these  pranks  no  more. 
— I  to  such  blockheads  set  my  wit! 
I  damn  such  fools ! — Go,  go,  you're  bit." 
Jonathan  Swift. 


1^7 


Righteous  Anger 

nPHE  lanky  hank  of  a  she  in  the  inn  over  there 

Nearly  killed  me  for  asking  the  loan  of  a  glass  of  beer : 
May  the  devil  grip  the  whey-faced  slut  by  the  hair, 
And  beat  bad  manners  out  of  her  skin  for  a  year. 

That  parboiled  imp,  v^rith  the  hardest  jaw  you  will  see 
On  virtue's  path,  and  a  voice  that  would  rasp  the  dead, 
Came  roaring  and  raging  the  minute  she  looked  on  me, 
And  threw  me  out  of  the  house  on  the  back  of  my  head ! 

If  I  asked  her  master  he*d  give  me  a  cask  a  day; 
But  she,  with  the  beer  at  hand,  not  a  gill  would  arrange  I 
May  she  marry  a  ghost  and  bear  him  a  kitten,  and  may 
The  High  King  of  Glory  permit  her  to  get  the  mange. 

James  Stephens. 
From  the  Irish  of  David  O'Bruaidar. 


198 


The  Petition  of  Tom  Dermody  to  the  Three  Fates 
in  Council  Sitting 

!>  IGHT  rigorous,  and  so  forth !    Humbled 

By  cares  and  mourning,  tost  and  tumbled, 
Before  your  Ladyships,  Tom  Fool, 
Knowing  above  the  rest  you  rule. 
Most  lamentably  sets  his  case 
With  a  bold  heart  and  saucy  face. 
Sans  shoes  or  stockings,  coat  or  Breeches, 
You  see  him  now,  most  mighty  witches, 
His  body  worn  like  an  old  farthing, 
The  angry  spirit  just  a-parting, 
His  credit  rotten,  and  his  purse 
As  empty  as  a  cobbler's  curse; 
His  Poems,  too,  unsold — that's  worse ! 
In  short,  between  confounded  crosses. 
Patrons  all  vexed  and  former  losses. 
Sure  as  a  gun  he  cannot  fail. 
Next  week  to  warble  in  a  jail. 
Which  jail  to  folks  not  very  sanguine 
Is  just  as  good  or  worse  than  hanging; 
Though  in  the  first  vain  hopes  flatter. 
But  Hope's  quite  strangled  by  the  latter. 
Thus  is  a  poor  rhyming  rascal  treated, 
Fairly,  or  rather  fouly  cheated 
Of  all  the  goods  from  wit  accruing, 
(Wit  that's  synonomous  with  ruin). 
Then  take  it  in  your  head-piece.  Ladies, 


199 


To  set  up  a  poor  Bard,  whose  trade  is 

Low  fallen  enough  in  conscience;  pity 

The  maker  of  this  magic  ditty; 

And  turn  your  Wheel  once  more  in  haste 

To  see  him  on  the  summit  placed, 

For  well  you  wot  that  woes  ('od  rot  'em) 

Have  long  since  stretched  him  at  the  bottom. 

Where  he  who  erst  fine  lyrics  gabbled 

With  mire  and  filth  was  sorely  dabbled, 

So  pitifully  pelted,  that 

He  looks  like  any  drowned  rat. 

O  Justice,  Justice,  take  his  part ! 

O  lift  him  on  thy  lofty  Cart 

Magnific  Fame!     And  let  fat  Plenty 

Marry  one  Poet  out  of  Twenty! 

Thomas  Dermody. 


200 


The  Peeler  and  the  Goat 

A    BANSHA  Peeler  wint  won  night 
On  duty  and  pathrollin'  O, 
An'  met  a  goat  upon  the  road, 
And  tuck  her  for  a  sthroller  O. 
Wud  bay'net  fixed  he  sallied  forth, 
An*  caught  her  by  the  wizzen  O, 
An*  then  he  swore  a  mighty  oath, 
"ril  send  you  off  to  prison  O." 

"Oh,  mercy,  sir!"  the  goat  replied, 
"Pray  let  me  tell  my  story  O ! 
I  am  no  Rogue,  no  Ribbonman, 
No  Croppy,  Whig,  or  Tory  O; 
Fm  guilty  not  of  any  crime 
Of  petty  or  high  thraison  O, 
I*m  sadly  wanted  at  this  time, 
For  this  is  the  milkin*  saison  O." 

"It  is  in  vain  for  to  complain 

Or  give  your  tongue  such  bridle  O, 

You're  absent  from  your  dwellin'  place, 

Disorderly  and  idle  O. 

Your  hoary  locks  will  not  prevail. 

Nor  your  sublime  oration  O, 

You'll  be  thransported  by  Peel's  Act, 

Upon  my  information  O." 


201 


"No  penal  law  did  I  transgress 
By  deeds  or  combination  O. 
I  have  no  certain  place  to  rest, 
No  home  or  habitation  O. 
But  Bansha  is  my  dwelling-place, 
Where  I  was  bred  and  born  O, 
Descended  from  an  honest  race. 
That's  all  the  trade  I've  learned  O." 

"I  will  chastise  your  insolince 
And  violent  behaviour  O; 
Well  bound  to  Cashel  you'll  be  sint, 
Where  you  will  gain  no  favour  O. 
The  magistrates  will  all  consint 
To  sign  your  condemnation  O; 
From  there  to  Cork  you  will  be  sint 
For  speedy  thransportation  O." 

"This  parish  an'  this  neighbourhood 
Are  paiceable  and  thranquil  O; 
There's  no  disturbance  here,  thank  God! 
An'  long  may  it  continue  so. 
I  don't  regard  your  oath  a  pin, 
Or  sign  for  my  committal  O, 
My  jury  will  be  gintlemin 
And  grant  me  my  acquittal  O." 

"The  consequince  be  what  it  will, 
A  peeler's,  power  I'll  let  you  know, 
I'll  handcuff  you,  at  all  events, 
And  march  you  off  to  Bridewell  O. 
An'  sure,  you  rogue,  you  can't  deny 
Before  the  judge  or  jury  O, 
Intimidation  with  your  horns, 
An*  threatening  me  with  fury  O." 


202 


"I  make  no  doubt  but  you  are  dhrunk, 

Wud  whiskey,  rum,  or  brandy  O, 

Or  you  wouldn't  have  such  gallant  spunk 

To  be  so  bould  or  manly  O. 

You  readily  would  let  me  pass 

If  I  had  money  handy  O, 

To  thrate  you  to  a  potheen  glass — 

Oh  I  it's  then  I'd  be  the  dandy  O." 

Anonymous, 


iOB 


The  Night  Before  Larry  Was  Stretched 

TpHE  night  before  Larry  was  stretched, 

The  boys  they  all  paid  him  a  visit; 
A  bait  in  their  sacks,  too,  they  fetched ; 
They  sweated  their  duds  till  they  riz  it: 
For  Larry  was  ever  the  lad. 
When  a  boy  was  condemned  to  the  squeezer, 
Would  fence  all  the  duds  that  he  had 
To  help  a  poor  friend  to  a  sneezer. 
And  warm  his  gob  'fore  he  died. 

The  boys  they  came  crowding  in  fast. 
They  drew  all  their  stools  round  about  him, 
Six  glims  round  his  trap-case  were  placed. 
He  couldn't  be  well  waked  without  'em. 
When  one  of  us  asked  could  he  die 
Without  having  truly  repented, 
Says  Larry,  "That's  all  in  my  eye; 
And  first  by  the  clargy  invented. 
To  get  a  fat  bit  for  themselves  " 

"I'm  sorry,  dear  Larry,"  says  I, 

"To  see  you  in  this  situation; 

And  blister  my  limbs  if  I  lie, 

I'd  as  lieve  it  had  been  my  own  station." 

"Ochonel  it's  all  all  over,"  says  he, 

"For  the  neck-cloth  I'll  be  forced  to  put  on, 

And  by  this  time  to-morrow  you'll  see 

Your  poor  Larry  as  dead  as  a  mutton. 

Because,  why,  his  courage  was  good. 


204 


"And  I'll  be  cut  up  like  a  pie, 

And  my  nob  from  my  body  be  parted. 

"You're  in  the  wrong  box,  then,"  says  I, 

"For  blast  me  if  they're  so  hard-hearted; 

A  chalk  on  the  back  of  your  neck 

Is  all  that  Jack  Ketch  dares  to  give  you; 

Then  mind  not  such  trifles  a  feck, 

For  why  should  the  likes  of  them  grieve  you? 

And  now,  boys,  come  tip  us  the  deck." 

The  cards  being  called  for,  they  played, 
Till  Larry  found  one  of  them  cheated; 
A  dart  at  his  napper  he  made 
(The  boy  being  easily  heated)  ; 
"Oh,  by  the  hokey,  >ju  thief, 
I'll  scuttle  your  nob  with  my  daddle! 
You  cheat  me  because  I'm  in  grief, 
But  soon  I'll  demolish  your  noddle. 
And  leave  you  your  claret  to  drink." 

Then  the  clergy  came  in  with  his  book, 
He  spoke  him  so  smooth  and  so  civil; 
Larry  tipped  him  a  Kilmainham  look, 
And  pitched  his  big  wig  to  the  devil ; 
Then  sighing,  he  threw  back  his  head, 
To  get  a  sweet  drop  of  the  bottle, 
And  pitiful  sighing,  he  said: 
"Oh,  the  hemp  will  be  soon  round  my  throttle, 
And  choke  my  poor  windpipe  to  death. 


205 


"Though  sure  it's  the  best  way  to  die, 
Oh,  the  devil  a  better  a-living! 
For,  sure  when  the  gallows  is  high 
Your  journey  is  shorter  to  heaven: 
But  what  harasses  Larry  the  most. 
And  makes  his  poor  soul  melancholy, 
Is  to  think  on  the  time  when  his  ghost 
Will  come  in  a  sheet  to  sweet  Molly — 
Oh,  sure  it  will  kill  her  alive!" 

So  moving  these  last  words  he  spoke. 

We  all  vented  our  tears  in  a  shower ; 

For  my  part,  I  thought  my  heart  broke, 

To  see  him  cut  down  like  a  flower. 

On  his  travels  we  watched  him  next  day, 

Oh,  the  throttler !    I  thought  I  could  kill  him; 

But  Larry  not  one  word  did  say. 

Nor  changed  till  he  came  to  "King  William"— 

Then,  musha!  his  color  grew  white. 

When  he  came  to  the  nubbling  chit. 
He  was  tucked  up  so  neat  and  so  pretty. 
The  rumbler  jogged  off  from  his  feet, 
And  he  died  with  his  feet  to  the  city; 
He  kicked,  too—but  that  was  all  pride, 

But  soon  you  might  see  'twas  all  over ; 
Soon  after  the  noose  was  untied, 
And  at  darky  we  waked  him  in  clover, 
And  sent  him  to  take  a  ground  sweat. 

Anonymous. 
See  Note  Page  350. 


206 


Bruadar  and  Smith  and  Glinn 

ORUADAR  and  Smith  and  Glinn, 

Amen,  dear  God,  I  pray, 
May  they  lie   low   in   waves   of   woe, 
And  tortures  slow  each  day! 
Amen! 

Bruadar  and  Smith  and  Glinn 

Helpless  and  cold,  I  pray, 
Amen !  I  pray,  O  King, 

To  see  them  pine  away. 
Amen! 

Bruadar  and  Smith  and  Glinn 

May  flails  of  sorrow  flay! 
Cause  for  lamenting,  snares  and  cares 

Be  theirs  by  night  and  day! 
Amen ! 

Blindness  come  down  on  Smith, 

Palsy  on  Bruadar  come, 
Amen,  O  King  of  Brightness!     Smite 

Glinn  in  his  members  numb, 
Amen! 

Smith  in  the  pangs  of  pain. 
Stumbling  on  Bruadar's  path. 

King  of  the  Elements,  Oh,  Amen ! 
Let  loose  on  Glinn  Thy  Wrath. 
Amen! 


207 


For  Bruadar  gape  the  grave, 
Up-shovel   for   Smith  the  mould, 

Amen,  O  King  of  the  Sunday!    Leave 
Glinn  in  the  devil's  hold. 
Amen ! 

Terrors  on  Bruadar  rain. 

And  pain  upon  pain  on  Glinn, 
Amen,  O  King  of  the  Stars!     And  Smith 

May  the  devil  be  linking  him. 
Amen! 

Glinn  in  a  shaking  ague. 

Cancer  on  Bruadar's  tongue. 
Amen,  O  King  of  the  Heavens !  and  Smith 

Forever  stricken  dumb. 
Amen ! 

Thirst  but  no  drink  for  Glinn, 

Smith  in  a  cloud  of  grief, 
Amen !  O  King  of  the  Saints ;  and  rout 

Bruadar  without  relief. 

Amen! 

Smith  without  child  or  heir. 

And  Bruadar  bare  of  store. 
Amen,  O  King  of  the  Friday!    Tear 

For  Glinn  his  black  heart's  core. 
Amen ! 

Bruadar  with  nerveless  limbs. 
Hemp  strangling  Glinn's  last  breath, 

Amen,  O  King  of  the  World's  Light! 
And  Smith  in  grips  with  death. 
Amen! 

Glinn  stiffening  for  the  tomb. 

Smith  wasting  to  decay, 
Amen,  O  King  of  the  Thunder's  gloom, 

And  Bruadar  sick  alway. 
Amen! 


208 


Smith  like  a  sieve  of  holes, 

Bruadar  with  throat  decay, 
Amen,  O  King  of  the  Orders !     GHnn 

A  buck-show  every  day. 
Amen! 

Hell-hounds  to  hunt  for  Smith, 

Glinn  led  to  hang  on  high, 
Amen,  O  King  of  the  Judgment  Day! 

And  Bruadar  rotting  by. 
Amen ! 

Curses  on  Glinn,  I  cry, 

My  curse  on  Bruadar  be, 
Amen,  O  King  of  the  Heavens  high ! 

Let  Smith  in  bondage  be. 
Amen! 

Showers  of  want  and  blame, 
Reproach,  and  shame  of  face. 

Smite  them  all  three,  and  smite  again. 
Amen,  O  King  of  Grace! 
Amen! 

Melt,  may  the  three,  away, 
Bruadar  and  Smith  and  Glinn, 

Fall  in  a  swift  and  sure  decay 
And  lose,  but  never  win. 
Amen! 

May  pangs  pass  through  thee,  Smith, 
(Let  the  wind  not  take  my  prayer), 

May  I  see  before  the  year  is  out 
Thy  heart's  blood  flowing  there. 
Amen! 

Leave  Smith  no  place  nor  land, 

Let  Bruadar  wander  wide. 
May  the  Devil  stand  at  Glinn's  right  hand, 

And  Glinn  to  him  be  tied. 
Amen  I 

209 


All  ill  from  every  airt 

Come  down  upon  the  three. 
And  blast  them  ere  the  year  be  out 

In  rout  and  misery. 

Amen! 

Glinn  let  misfortune  bruise, 
Bruadar  lose  blood  and  brains. 

Amen,   O  Jesus!  hear  my  voice, 
Let  Smith  be  bent  in  chains. 
Amen! 

I  accuse  both  Glinn  and  Bruadar, 

And  Smith  I  accuse  to  God, 
May  a  breach  and  a  gap  be  upon  the  three, 

And  the  Lord's  avenging  rod. 
Amen! 

Each  one  of  the  wicked  three 
Who  raised  against  me  their  hand. 

May  fire  from  heaven  come  down  and  slay 
This  day  their  perjured  band, 
Amen ! 

May  none  of  their  race  survive, 

May  God  destroy  them  all, 
Each  curse  of  the  psalms  in  the  holy  books 

Of  the  prophets  upon  them  fall. 
Amen ! 

Blight  skull,  and  ear,  and  skin. 
And  hearing,  and  voice,  and  sight, 

Amen!  before  the  year  be  out. 
Blight,  Son  of  the  Virgin,  blight. 
Amen! 

May  my  curses  hot  and  red 

And  all  I  have  said  this  day, 
Strike  the  Black  Peeler,  too, 
Amen,  dear  God,  I  pray! 
Amen ! 
Translated  by  Douglas  Hyde. 
210 


The  Bard  on  the  Bodach 

(Who    has    denied   him    hospitality) 

IM'AY  a  messenger  come  from  the  High  Place  of  God 

To  bear  up  your  soul  to  a  throne — 
But  a  robber  be  robbing  him  on  the  way  back 
And  your  fall  be  as  dead  as  a  stone. 

May  your  tables  be  laden  with  jewels  and  gold 
And  your  hands  be  upon  it  for  proof — 
When  the  devil  whips  in  by  your  beggarly  door 
To  tear  your  red  soul  through  the  roof. 

Seumas  O'Kelly. 


211 


A  Curse  on  a  Closed  Gate 

gE  THIS  the  fate 

Of  the  man  who  would  shut  his  gate 
On  the  stranger,  gentle  or  simple,  early  or  late. 

When  his  mouth  with  a  day's  long  hunger  and  thirst  would 

wish 
For  the  savour  of  salted  fish. 
Let  him  sit  and  eat  his  fill  of  an  empty  dish. 

To  the  man  of  that  ilk, 

Let  water  stand  in  his  churn,  instead  of  milk 

That  turns  a  calf's  coat  silk. 

And  under  the  gloomy  night 
May  never  a  thatch  made  tight 
Shut  out  the  clouds  from  his  sight. 

Above  the  ground  or  below  it, 
Good  cheer,  may  he  never  know  it. 

Nor  a  tale  by  the  fire,  nor  a  dance  on  the  road,  nor  a  song  by  a 
wandering  poet. 

Till  he  open  his  gate 

To  the  stranger,  early  or  late, 

And  turn  back  the  stone  of  his  fate. 

James  H.  Cousins 
From  the  Irish. 


2ia 


O'Hussey's  Ode  to  the  Maguire 

'ITKT'HERE  is  my  chief,  my  master,  this  bleak  night,  mavrone? 
O  cold,  cold,  miserably  cold  is  this  bleak  night  for  Hugh  I 
Its  showery,  arrowy,  speary  sleet  pierceth  one  thro'  and  thro', 
Pierceth  one  to  the  very  bone. 

Rolls  real  thunder?    Or  was  that  red  vivid  light 

Only  a  meteor?  I  scarce  know;  but  through  the  midnight 
dim 

The  pitiless  ice-wind  streams.  Except  the  hate  that  perse- 
cutes him. 

Nothing  hath  crueler  venomy  might. 

An  awful,  a  tremendous  night  is  this,  meseems ! 

The  flood-gates  of  the  rivers  of  heaven,  I  think,  have  been 

burst  wide; 
Down  from  the  overcharged  clouds,  like  to  headlong  ocean's 

tide. 
Descends  grey  rain  in  roaring  streams. 

Tho'  he  were  even  a  wolf  ranging  the  round  green  woods, 
Tho'  he  were  even  a  pleasant  salmon  in  the  unchainable  sea, 
Tho'  he  were  a  wild  mountain  eagle,  he  could  scarce  bear,  he. 
This  sharp  sore  sleet,  these  howling  floods. 

O  mournful  is  my  soul  this  night  for  Hugh  Maguire! 
Darkly  as  in  a  dream  he  strays.     Before  him  and  behind 
Triumphs  the  tyrannous  anger  of  the  wounding  wind. 
The  wounding  wind  that  burns  as  fire. 


213 


It  is  my  bitter  grief,  it  cuts  me  to  the  heart 
That  in  the  country  of  Clan  Darry  this  should  be  his  fate ! 
O  woe  is  me,  where  is  he?     Wandering,  houseless,  desolate, 
Alone,  without  or  guide  or  chart! 

Medreams  I  see  just  now  his  face,  the  strawberry-bright, 

Uplifted  to  the  blackened  heavens,  while  the  tempestuous 
winds 

Blow  fiercely  over  and  round  him,  and  the  smiting  sleet- 
shower  blinds 

The  hero  of  Galang  to-nigktl 

Large,  large  affliction  unto  me  and  mine  it  is 

That  one  of  his  majestic  bearing,  his  fair  stately  form. 

Should  thus  be  tortured  and  o'erborne;  that  this  unsparing 

storm 
Should  wreak  its  wrath  on  head  like  his ! 

That  his  great  hand,  so  oft  the  avenger  of  the  oppressed. 
Should  this  chill  churlish  night,  perchance,  be  paralysed  by 

frost ; 
While  through  some  icicle-hung  thicket,  as  one  lorn  and  lost. 
He  walks  and  wanders  without  rest. 

The  tempest-driven  torrent  deluges  the  mead. 
It  overflows  the  low  banks  of  the  rivulets  and  ponds; 
The  lawns  and  pasture-grounds  lie  locked  in  icy  bonds. 
So  that  the  cattle  cannot  feed. 

The  pale-bright  margins  of  the  streams  are  seen  by  none; 
Rushes  and  sweeps  along  the  untamable  flood  on  every  side; 
It  penetrates  and  fills  the  cottagers'  dwellings  far  and  wide ; 
Water  and  land  are  blent  in  one. 

Through  some  dark  woods,  'mid  bones  of  monsters,  Hugh 

now  strays. 
As  he  confronts  the  storm  with  anguished  heart,  but  manly 

brow, 
O  what  a  sword-wound  to  that  tender  heart  of  his,  were  now 
A  backward  glance  at  peaceful  days  I 


214 


But  other  thoughts  are  his,  thoughts  that  can  still  inspire 
With  joy  and  onward-bounding  hope  the  bosom  of  MacNee; 
Thoughts  of  his  warriors  charging  like  bright  billows  of  the 

sea, 
Borne  on  the  wind's  wings,  flashing  fire! 

And  tho*  frost  glaze  to-night  the  clear  dew  of  his  eyes. 
And  white  ice-gauntlets  glove  his  noble  fine  fair  fingers  o'er, 
A  warm  dress  is  to  him  that  lightning-garb  he  ever  wore, 
The  lightning  of  his  soul,  not  skies. 

Avran. 

Hugh  marched  forth  to  fight:  I  grieved  to  see  him  so  de- 
part. 
And  lo !  to-night  he  wanders  frozen,  rain-drenched,  sad  be- 
trayed ; 
But  the  memory  of  the  lime-white  mansions  his  right  hand 

hath  laid 
In  ashes,  warms  the  hero's  heart! 

Translated  by  James  Clarence  Mangan. 
See  Note  Page  350. 


215 


A  Lament  for  the  Princes  of  Tyrone  and 

Tyrconnel 

r\  WOMAN  of  the  piercing  wail, 

Who  mournest  o'er  yon  mound  of  clay 
With  sigh  and  groan, 
Would  God  thou  wert  among  the  Gael! 
Thou  would'st  not  then  from  day  to  day 
Weep  thus  alone. 

'Twere  long  before  around  a  grave 
In  green  Tyrconnel,  one  could  find 
This  loneliness; 

Near  where  Beann-Boirche's  banners  wave, 
Such  grief  as  thine  could  ne*er  have  pined 
Companionless. 

Beside  the  wave  in  Donegal, 

In  Antrim's  glens,  or  fair  Dromore, 

Or  Killilee, 

Or  where  the  sunny  waters  fall 

At  Assaroe,  near  Erna  shore, 

This  could  not  be. 

On  Derry's  plains,  in  rich  Drumcliff, 

Throughout  Armagh  the  Great,  renowned 

In  olden  years. 

No  day  could  pass  but  woman's  grief 

Would  rain  upon  the  burial-ground 

Fresh  floods  of  tears! 

O  no ! — From  Shannon,  Boyne,  and  Suir, 
From  high  Dunluce's  castle-walls. 
From  Lissadill, 


2ie 


Would  flock  alike  both  rich  and  poor : 
.  One  wail  would  rise  from  Cruachan's  halls 
To  Tara  Hill; 

And  some  would  come  from  Barrow-side, 
And  many  a  maid  would  leave  her  home 
On  Leitrim's  plains, 
And  by  melodious  Banna's  tide, 
And  by  the  Mourne  and  Erne,  to  come 
And  swell  thy  strains ! 

O,  horses'  hoofs  would  trample  down 

The  mount  whereon  the  martyr-saint 

Was  crucified; 

From  glen  and  hill,  from  plain  and  town. 

One  loud  lament,  one  thrilling  plaint. 

Would  echo  wide. 

There  would  not  soon  be  found,  I  ween. 

One  foot  of  ground  among  those  bands 

For  museful  thought, 

So  many  shriekers  of  the  keen 

Would  cry  aloud,  and  clap  their  hands, 

All  woe-distraught! 

Two  princes  of  the  line  of  Conn 

Sleep  in  their  cells  of  clay  beside 

O'Donnell  Roe: 

Three  royal  youths,  alas !  are  gone, 

Who  lived  for  Erin's  weal,  but  died 

For  Erin's  woe. 

Ah,  could  the  men  of  Ireland  read 

The  names  those  noteless  burial-stones 

Display  to  view. 

Their  wounded  hearts  afresh  would  bleed. 

Their  tears  gush  forth  again,  their  groans 

Resound  anew! 


217 


The  youths  whose  relics  moulder  here 

Were  sprung  from  Hugh,  high  prince  and  lord 

Of  Aileach's  lands; 

Thy  noble  brothers,  justly  dear, 

Thy  nephew,  long  to  be  deplored 

By  Ulster's  bands. 

Theirs  were  not  souls  wherein  dull  time 

Could  domicile  decay,  or  house 

Decrepitude ! 

They  passed  from  earth  ere  manhood's  prime, 

Ere  years  had  power  to  dim  their  brows, 

Or  chill  their  blood. 

And  who  can  marvel  o'er  thy  grief, 
Or  who  can  blame  thy  flowing  tears. 
Who  knows  their  source? 
O'Donnell,  Dunnasava's  chief, 
Cut  off  amid  his  vernal  years. 
Lies  here  a  corse 

Beside  his  brother  Cathbar,  whom 
Tyrconnell  of  the  Helmets  mourns 
In  deep  despair: 

For  valour,  truth,  and  comely  bloom. 
For  all  that  greatens  and  adorns, 
A  peerless  pair. 


218 


Oh,  had  these  twain,  and  he,  the  third, 

The  Lord  of  Mourne,  O'NiaU's  son 

(Their  mate  in  death), 

A  prince  in  look,  in  deed,  and  word, 

Had  these  three  heroes  yielded  on 

The  field  their  breath. 

Oh,  had  they  fallen  on  Criffan's  plain. 

There  would  not  be  a  town  or  clan 

From  shore  to  sea, 

But  would  with  shrieks  bewail  the  slain, 

Or  chant  aloud  the  exulting  rann 

Of  jubilee! 

When  high  the  shout  of  battle  rose, 

On  fields  where  Freedom's  torch  still  burned 

Through  Erin's  gloom, 

If  one,  if  barely  one  of  those 

Were  slain,  all  Ulster  would  have  mourned 

T-he  hero's  doom! 

If  at  Athboy,  where  hosts  of  brave 

Ulidian  horsemen  sank  beneath 

The  shock  of  spears, 

Young  Hugh  O'Neill  had  found  a  grave, 

Long  must  the  North  have  wept  his  death 

With  heart-wrung  tears! 

If  on  the  day  of  Ballach-myre 

The  Lord  of  Mourne  had  met  thus  young, 

A  warrior's  fate. 

In  vain  would  such  as  thou  desire 

To  mourn,  alone,  the  champion  sprung 

From  Niall  the  Great! 

No  marvel  this — for  all  the  dead. 

Heaped  on  the  field,  pile  over  pile. 

At  Mullach-brack, 

Were  scarce  an  eric  for  his  head. 

If  death  had  stayed  his  footsteps  while 

On  victory's  track! 


219 


If  on  the  Day  of  Hostages 

The  fruit  had  from  the  parent  bough 

Been  rudely  torn 

In  sight  of  Munster's  bands — MacNee's — 

Such  blow  the  blood  of  Conn,  I  trow, 

Could  ill  have  borne. 

If  on  the  day  of  Ballach-boy 

Some  arm  had  laid  by  foul  surprise, 

The  chieftain  low. 

Even  our  victorious  shout  of  joy 

Would  soon  give  place  to  rueful  cries 

And  groans  of  woe! 

If  on  the  day  the  Saxon  host 

Were  forced  to  fly — a  day  so  great 

For  Ashanee — 

The  Chief  had  been  untimely  lost, 

Our  conquering  troops  should  moderate 

Their  mirthful  glee. 

There  would  not  lack  on  Lifford's  day, 

From  Gal  way,  from  the  glens  of  Boyle, 

From  Limerick's  towers, 

A  marshalled  file,  a  long  array 

Of  mourners  to  bedew  the  soil 

With  tears  in  showers! 

If  on  the  day  a  sterner  fate 

Compelled  his  flight  from  Athenree, 

His  blood  had  flowed. 

What  numbers  all  disconsolate. 

Would  come  unasked,  and  share  with  thee 

Affliction's  load ! 

If  Derry's  crimson  field  had  seen 

His  life-blood  offered  up,  though  'twere 

On  Victory's  shrine, 

A  thousand  cries  would  swell  the  keen, 

A  thousand  voices  of  despair 

Would  echo  thine! 


220 


Oh,  had  the  fierce  Dalcassian  swarm 

That  bloody  ni^ht  of  Fergus*  banks 

But  slain  our  Chief, 

When  rose  hfs  camp  in  wild  alarm — 

How  would  the  triumph  of  his  ranks 

Be  dashed  with  grief! 

How  would  the  troops  of  Murbach  mourn 

If  on  the  Curlew  Mountains'  day 

Which  England  rued, 

Some  Saxon  hand  had  left  them  lorn. 

By  shedding  there,  amid  the  fray, 

Their  prince's  blood ! 

Red  would  have  been  our  warriors'  eyes 

Had  Roderick  found  on  Sligo's  field 

A  gory  grave, 

No  Northern  Chief  would  soon  arise 

So  sage  to  guide,  so  strong  to  shield, 

So  swift  to  save. 

Long  would  Leith-Cuinn  have  wept  if  Hugh 

Had  met  the  death  he  oft  had  dealt 

Among  the  foe; 

But,  had  our  Roderick  fallen  too, 

All  Erin  must,  alas!  have  felt 

The  deadly  blow ! 

What  do  I  say?    Ah,  woe  is  me! 

Already  we  bewail  in  vain 

Their  fatal  fall! 

And  Erin,  once  the  great  and  free. 

Now  vainly  mourns  her  breakless  chain, 

And  iron  thrall.  / 

Then,  daughter  of  O'Donnell,  dry 

Thine  overflowing  eyes,  and  turn 

Thy  heart  aside. 

For  Adam's  race  is  born  to  die. 

And  sternly  the  sepulchral  urn 

Mocks  human  pride. 


221 


Look  not,  nor  sigh,  for  earthly  throne, 

Nor  place  thy  trust  in  arm  of  clay, 

But  on  thy  knees 

Uplift  thy  soul  to  God  alone. 

For  all  things  go  their  destined  way 

As  He  decrees. 

Embrace  the  faithful  crucifix, 

And  seek  the  path  of  pain  and  prayer 

Thy  Saviour  trod; 

Nor  let  thy  spirit  intermix 

With  earthly  hope,  with  worldly  care, 

Its  groans  to  God! 

And  Thou,  O  mighty  Lord !  whose  ways 
Are  far  above  our  feeble  minds 
To  understand. 

Sustain  us  in  these  doleful  days, 
And  render  light  the  chain  that  binds 
Our  fallen  land! 
James  Clarence  Mangan:  Translated  from  the  Irish. 
See  Note  Page  35L 


222 


Lament  for  the  Death  of  Eoghan  Ruadh  O^Neill 

^^T\lD   they  dare,   did  they  dare,   to   slay  Eoghan   Ruadh 

^  O'Neill?" 

"Yes,  they  slew  with  poison  him  they  feared  to  meet"  with 

steel."  '  *  ^  * 

"May  God  wither  up  their  hearts!     May  their  blood  cease 

to  flow. 
May  they  walk  in  living  death,  who  poisoned  Eoghan  Ruadh." 

"Though   it  break  my  heart  to  hear,   say  again   the  bitter 

words. 
From    Derry,    against    Cromwell,    he    marched    to    measure 

swords : 
But  the  weapon  of  the  Sassanach  met  him  on  his  way. 
And  he  died  at  Cloch  Uachtar,  upon  St.  Leonard's  day. 

"Wail,  wail  ye  for  the  Mighty  One.     Wail,  wail  ye  for  the 

Dead, 
Quench  the  hearth,  and  hold  the  breath — with  ashes  strew  the 

head. 
How  tenderly  we  loved  him.     How  deeply  we  deplore ! 
Holy  Saviour!  but  to  think  we  shall  never  see  him  more! 

"Sagest  in  the  council  was  he,  kindest  in  the  hall, 
Sure  we  never  won  a  battle — 'twas  Eoghan  won  them  all. 
Had  he  lived — ^had  he  lived — our  dear  country  had  been  free : 
But  he's  dead,  but  he's  dead,  and  'tis  slaves  we'll  ever  be. 


223 


"O'Farrell  and  Clanricarde,  Preston  and  Red  Hugh, 

Audley  and  MacMahon — ye  valiant,  wise  and  true: 

But — what  are  ye  all  to  our  darling  who  is  gone? 

The  Rudder  of  our  Ship  was  he,  our  Castle's  corner  stone. 


"Wail,  wail  him  through  the  Island!     Weep,  weep  for  our 

pride ! 
Would  that  on  the  battlefield  our  gallant  chief  had  died! 
Weep  the  Victor  of  Beinn  Burb — weep  him,  young  and  old: 
Weep  for  him,  ye  women — your  beautiful  lies  cold ! 

"We  thought  you  would  not  die — we  were  sure  you  would 

not  go, 
And  leave  us  in  our  utmost  need  to  Cromwell's  cruel  blow — 
Sheep   without  a   shepherd,   when   the   snow   shuts   out   the 

sky — 
O!  why  did  you  leave  us,  Eoghan?    Why  did  you  die? 

"Soft  as  woman's  was  your  voice,  O'Neill!  bright  was  your 

eye, 
O  !  why  did  you  leave  us,  Eoghan  ?    Why  did  you  die  ? 
Your  troubles  are  all  over,  you're  at  rest  with  God  on  high, 
But  we're  slaves,  and  we're  orphans,  Eoghan ! — why  did  you 
die?" 

TnoMAS  Davis. 
See  Note  Page  351. 


224 


Dirge  on  the  Death  of  Art  O'Leary 

By  Dark  Eileen,  his  wife 


jyj^Y  CLOSEST  and  dearest! 

From  the  first  day  I  saw  you 
From  the  top  of  the  market-house, 
My  eyes  gave  heed  to  you, 
My  heart  gave  affection  to  you, 
I  fled  from  my  friends  with  you, 
Far  from  my  home  with  you. 
No  lasting  sorrow  this  to  me. 


II 


Thou  didst  bring  me  to  fair  chambers, 
Rooms  you  had  adorned  for  me; 
Ovens  were  reddened  for  me. 
Fresh  trout  were  caught  for  me, 
Roast  flesh  was  carved  for  me 
From  beef  that  was  felled  for  me; 
On  beds  of  down  I  lay 
Till  the  coming  of  the  milking-time, 
Or  so  long  as  was  pleasing  to  me. 


225 


Rider  of  the  white  palm! 

With  the  silver-hilted  sword! 

Well  your  beaver  hat  became  you 

With  its  band  of  graceful  gold; 

Your  suit  of  solid  homespun  yarn 

Wrapped  close  around  your  form; 

Slender  shoes  of  foreign  fashion, 

And  a  pin  of  brightest  silver 

Fastened  in  your  shirt. 

As  you  rode  in  stately  wise 

On  your  slender  steed,  white-faced. 

After  coming  over  seas. 

Even  the  Saxons  bowed  before  you 

Bowed  down  to  the  very  ground; 

Not  because  they  loved  you  well 

But  from  deadly  hate; 

For  it  was  by  them  you  fell, 

Darling  of  my  soul. 


My  friend  and  my  little  calf! 

Offsprings  of  the  Lords  of  Antrim, 

And  the  chiefs  of  Immokely! 

Never  had  I  thought  you  dead. 

Until  there  came  to  me  your  mare 

Her  bridle  dragged  beside  her  to  the  ground ; 

Upon  her  brow  your  heart-blood  splashed. 

Even  to  the  carven  saddle  flowing  down 

Where  you  were  wont  to  sit  or  stand. 

I  did  not  stay  to  cleanse  it — 

I  gave  a  quick  leap  with  my  hands 

Upon  the  wooden  stretcher  of  the  bed: 

A  second  leap  was  to  the  gate. 

And  the  third  leap  upon  thy  mare. 


226 


In  haste  I  clapped  my  hands  together, 

I   followed  on  your  tracks 

As  well  as  I  could, 

Till  I  found  you  laid  before  me  dead 

At  the  foot  of  a  lowly  bush  of  furze ; 

Without  pope,  without  bishop, 

Without  cleric  or  priest 

To  read  a  psalm  for  thee; 

But  only  an  old  bent  wasted  crone 

Who  flung  over  thee  the  corner  of  her  cloak. 


My  dear  and  beloved  one! 

When  it  will  come  to  me  to  reach  our  home, 

Little  Conor,   of  our  love, 

And  Fiac,  his  toddling  baby-brother, 

Will  be  asking  of  me  quickly 

Where  I  left  their  dearest  father? 

I  shall  answer  them  with   sorrow 

That  I  left  him  in  Kill  Martyr ; 

They  will  call  upon  their  father; 

He  will  not  be  there  to  answer. 

vn 

My  love  and  my  chosen  one ! 

When  you  were  going  forward  from  the  gate. 

You  turned  quickly  back  again ! 

You  kissed  your  two  children, 

You  threw  a  kiss  to  me. 

You  said,  "Eileen,  arise  now,  be  stirring. 

And  set  your  house  in  order, 

Be  swiftly  moving. 

I  am  leaving  our  home. 

It  is  likely  that  I  may  not  come  again." 

I  took  it  only  for  a  jest 

You  used  often  to  be  jesting  thus  before. 


227 


vm 

My  friend  and  my  heart's  love  I 

Arise  up,  my  Art, 

Leap  on  thy  steed,  f 

Arise  out  to  Macroom 

And  to  Inchegeela  after  that; 

A  bottle  of  wine  in  thy  grasp, 

As  was  ever  in  the  time  of  thy  ancestors. 

Arise  up,  my  Art, 

Rider  of  the  shining  sword; 

Put  on  your  garments. 

Your  fair  noble  clothes; 

Don  your  black  beaver, 

Draw  on  your  gloves; 

See,  here  hangs  your  whip. 

Your  good  mare  waits  without; 

Strike  eastward  on  the  narrow  road. 

For  the  bushes  will  bare  themselves  before  you. 

For  the  streams  will  narrow  on  your  path, 

For  men  and  women  will  bow  themselves  before  you 

If  their  own  good  manners  are  upon  them  yet, 

But  I  am  much  a- feared  they  are  not  now. 

IX 

Destruction  to  you  and  woe, 

O  Morris,  hideous  the  treachery 

That  took  from  me  the  man  of  the  house. 

The  father  of  my  babes; 

Two  of  them  running  about  the  house. 

The  third  beneath  my  breast, 

It  is  likely  that  I  shall  not  give  it  birth. 


228 


My  long  wound,  my  bitter  sorrow, 
That  I  was  not  beside  thee 
When  the  shot  was  fired; 
That  I  might  have  got  it  in  my  soft  body 
Or  in  the  skirt  of  my  gown; 
Till  I  would  give  you  freedom  to  escape, 
O  Rider  of  the  grey  eye, 

Because  it  is  you  would  best  have  followed  after 
them. 


My  dear  and  my  heart's  love ! 

Terrible  to  me  the  way  I  see  thee, 

To  be  putting  our  hero, 

Our  rider  so  true  of  heart. 

In  a  little  cap  in  a  coffin! 

Thou  who  used  to  be  fishing  along  the  streams, 

Thou  who  didst  drink  within  wide  halls 

Among  the  gentle  women  white  of  breast; 

It  is  my  thousand  afflictions 

That  I  have  lost  your  companionship! 

My  love  and  my  darling, 

Could  my  shouts  but  reach  thee 

West  in  mighty  Derrynane, 

And  in  Carhen  of  the  yellow  apples  after  that; 

Many  a  light-hearted  young  horseman. 

And  woman  with  white,  spotless  kerchief 

Would  swiftly  be  with  us  here. 

To  wail  above  thy  head 

Art  O'Leary  of  the  joyous  laugh! 

O  women  of  the  soft,  wet  eyes. 

Stay  now  your  weeping. 

Till  Art  OTeary  drinks  his  drink 

Before  his  going  back  to  school; 

Not  to  learn  reading  or  music  does  he  go  there  now. 

But  to  carry  clay  and  stones. 


229 


XII 

My  love  and  my  secret  thou. 

Thy  corn-stacks  are  piled, 

And  thy  golden  kine  are  milking, 

But  it  is  upon  my  own  heart  is  the  grief ! 

There  is  no  healing  in  the  Province  of  Munster, 

Nor  in  the  Island  smithy  of  the  Fians, 

Till  Art  O'Leary  will  come  back  to  me; 

But  all  as  if  it  were  a  lock  upon  a  trunk 

And  the  key  of  it  gone  straying ; 

Or  till  rust  will  come  upon  the  screw. 

xni 

My  friend  and  my  best  one ! 

Art  O'Leary,  son  of  Conor, 

Son  of  Cadach,  son  of  Lewis, 

Eastward  from  wet  wooded  glens, 

Westward  from  the  slender  hill 

Where   the    rowan-berries    grow. 

And  the  yellow  nuts  are  ripe  upon  the  branches ; 

Apples  trailing,  as  it  was  in  my  day. 

Little  wonder  to  myself 

If  fires  were  lighted  in  O'Leary's  country, 

And  at  the  mouth  of  Ballingeary, 

Or  at  holy  Gougane  Barra  of  the  cells. 

After  the  rider  of  the  smooth  grip. 

After  the  huntsman  unwearied 

When,  heavy  breathing  with  the  chase. 

Even  thy  lithe  deerhounds  lagged  behind. 

O  horseman  of  th§  enticing  eyes, 

What  happened  thee  last  night? 

For  I  myself  thought 

That  the  whole  world  could  not  kill  you 

When  1  bought  for  you  that  shirt  of  mail. 


230 


XI7 

My  friend  and  my  darling! 

A  cloudy  vision  through  the  darkness 

Came  to  me  last  night, 

At  Cork  lately 

And  I  alone  upon  my  bed! 

I  saw  the  wooded  glen  withered, 

I  saw  our  lime- washed  court  fallen; 

No  sound  of  speech  came  from  thy  hunting-dogs 

Nor  sound  of  singing  from  the  birds 

When  you  were  found  in  the  clay, 

On  the  side  of  the  hill  without; 

When  you  were  found  fallen 

Art  O'Leary; 

With  your  drop  of  blood  oozing  out 

Through  the  breast  of  your  shirt. 

XV 

It  is  known  to  Jesus  Christ, 

I  will  put  no  cap  upon  thy  head. 

Nor  body-linen  on  my  side, 

Nor  shoes  upon  my  feet. 

Nor  gear  throughout  the  house: 

Even  on  the  brown  mare  will  be  no  bridle. 

But  I  shall  spend  all  in  taking  the  law. 

I  will  go  across  the  seas 

To  seek  the  villain  of  the  black  blood 

But  if  they  will  give  no  heed  to  me, 

It  is  I  that  will  come  back  again 

To   speak  with  the   King; 

Who  cut  off  my  treasure  from  me. 

O  Morris,  who  killed  my  hero. 

Was  there  not  one  man  in  Erin 

Would  put  a  bullet  through  you? 


231 


XVI 

The  affection  of  this  heart  to  you, 

O  white  women  of  the  mill, 

For  the  edged  poetry  that  you  have  shed 

Over  the  horseman  of  the  brown  mare. 

It  is  I  who  am  the  lonely  one 

In  Inse  Carriganane. 

Translated  by  Eleanor  Hull. 
See  Note  Page  352. 


The  Lament  for  O'Sullivan  Beare 

{Made  by  His  Nurse) 

nPHE  sun  of  Ivera 

No  longer  shines  brightly, 
The  voice  of  her  music 
No  longer  is  sprightly; 
No  more  to  her  maidens 
The  light  dance  is  dear, 
Since  the  death  of  our  darling 
O'Sullivan  Beare. 

Scully!  thou  false  one 
You  basely  betrayed  him; 
In  his  strong  hour  of  need 
When  thy  right  hand  should  aid  him ; 
He  fed  thee — he  clad  thee — 
You  had  all  could  delight  thee: 
You  left  him,  you  sold  him 
May  heaven  requite  thee! 

Scully!    May  all  kinds 
Of  evil  attend  thee! 
On  thy  dark  road  of  life 
May  no  kind  one  befriend  thee! 
May  fevers  long  burn  thee. 
And  agues  long  freeze  thee! 
May  the  strong  hand  of  God 
In  his  red  anger  seize  thee ! 


Had  he  died  calmly 

I  would  not  deplore  him; 

Or  if  the  wild  strife 

Of  the  sea-war  closed  o'er  him : 

But  with  ropes  round  his  white  limbs 

Through  Ocean  to  trail  him, 

Like  a  fish  after  slaughter 

'Tis  therefore  I  wail  him. 

Long  may  the  curse 

Of  his  people  pursue  them ; 

Scully  that  sold  him 

And  soldier  that  slew  him! 

One  glimpse  of  Heaven's  light 

May  they  sec  never ! 

May  the  hearthstone  of  Hell 

Be  their  best  bed  forever! 

In  the  hole  where  the  vile  hands 
Of  soldiers  had  laid  thee, 
Unhonored,  unshrouded. 
And  headless  they  laid  thee. 
No  eye  to  rain  o'er  thee, 
No  dirge  to  lament  thee. 
No  friend  to  deplore  thee  I 

Dear  head   of  my   darling 
How  gory  and  pale 
These  aged  eyes  see  thee, 
High  spiked  on  their  jail! 
That  cheek  in  the  summer  sun 
Ne'er  shall  grow  warm; 
Nor  that  eye  e'er  catch  light 
From  the  flash  of  the  storm! 


234 


A  curse,  blessed  ocean, 
Is  on  thy  green  water 
From  the  Haven  of  Cork 
To  Ivera  of  slaughter: 
Since  the  billows  were  dyed 
With  the  red  wounds  of  fear 
Of   Muirtach   Og 
Our  O^SuIlivan  Beare! 
Translated  by  Jeremiah  Joseph  Callanan. 


235 


A  Connacht  Caoine 

J^RAW  near  to  the  tables,  ye  that  wear  the  cloaks; 

Here  ye  have  flesh,  but  it  is  not  roast  flesh, 
Nor  boiled  in  pots,  nor  cooked  for  feasting, 
But  my  dear  Bourke — och,  och.,  after  been  slain. 

You,  young  women,  who  are  drinking  wine  there, 

Let  my  sharp  screeches  pierce  your  heart. 

If  I  am  wise  I  may  get  whatever  is  my  lot, 

But  you  will  never — och,  och.  och — get  another  brother ! 

O  young  woman,  don't  you  pity  my  sorrow? 
My  mourning  over  the  bier  of  my  spouse? 
A  lock  of  his  hair  is  within  my  purse. 
And  his  offspring — och,  och — ^hidden  within  me! 

From  the  Irish. 


236 


The  Convict  of  Clonmala 

f-TOW  hard  is  my  fortune, 

And  vain  my  repining! 
The  strong  rope  of   fate 
For  this  young  neck  is  twining. 
My  strength  is  departed, 
My  cheek  sunk  and  sallow, 
While  I  languish  in  chains 
In  the  gaol  of  Clonmala. 

No  boy  in  the  village 
Was  ever  yet  milder; 
Fd  play  with  a  child 
And  my  sport  would  be  wilder; 
I'd   dance   without   tiring 
From  morning  till  even, 
And  the  goal-ball  I'd  strike 
To  the  lightning  of  heaven. 
At  my  bed- foot  decaying, 
My  hurl-ball  is  lying; 

Through  the  boys  of  the  village 
My  goal-ball  is  flying; 
My  horse  'mong  the  neighbors 
Neglected  may  fallow, 
While  I  pine  in  my  chains 
In  the  gaol  of  Clonmala. 


237 


Next  Sunday  the  pattern 
At  home  will  be  keeping, 
And  the  young  active  hurlers 
The  field  will  be  sweeping; 
With  the  dance  of  fair  maidens 
The  evening  they'll  hallow, 
While  this  heart,  once  so  gay, 
Shall  be  cold  in   Clonmala. 
Translated  by  Jeremiah  Joseph  Callanan. 


238 


A  Woman  of  the  Mountain  Keens  Her  Son 

/^RIEF  on  the  death,  it  has  blackened  my  heart: 

It  has  snatched  my  love  and  left  me  desolate,    . 
Without  friend  or  companion  under  the  roof  of  my  house 
But  this  sorrow  in  the  midst  of  me,  and  I  keening. 

As  I  walked  the  mountain  in  the  evening 
The  birds  spoke  to  me  sorrowfully, 
The  sweet  snipe  spoke  and  the  voiceless  curlew 
Relating  to  me  that  my  darling  was  dead. 

I  called  to  you  and  your  voice  I  heard  not, 

I  called  again  and  I  got  no  answer, 

I  kissed  your*  mouth,  and  O  God  how  cold  it  was ! 

Ah,  cold  is  your  bed  in  the  lonely  churchyard. 

O  green-sodded  grave  in  which  my  child  is. 
Little  narrow  grave,  since  you  are  his  bed, 
My  blessing  on  you,  and  thousands  of  blessings 
On  the  green  sods  that  are  over  my  treasure. 

Grief  on  the  death,  it  cannot  be  denied, 
It  lays  low,  green  and  withered  together, — 
And  O  gentle  little  son,  what  tortures  me  is 
That  your  fair  body  should  be  making  clay! 

Translated  from  the  Irish  of  Padra^c  Pearse. 


239 


Aghadoe 

np HERE'S  a  glade  in  Aghadoe,  Aghadoe,  Aghadoe, 
There's  a  green  and  silent  glade  in  Aghadoe, 
Where  we  met,  my  Love  and  I,  Love's  fair  planet  in  the 
sky, 
O'er  that  sweet  and  silent  glade  in  Aghadoe. 

There's  a  glen  in  Aghadoe,  Aghadoe,  Aghadoe, 
There's  a  deep  and  secret  glen  in  Aghadoe, 
Where  I  hid  him  from  the  eyes  of  the  red-coats  and  their 
spies 
That  year  the  trouble  came  to  Aghadoe. 

Oh!  my  curse  on  one  black  heart  in  Aghadoe,  Aghadoe, 
On  Shaun  Dhuv,  my  mother's  son  in  Aghadoe, 
When  your  throat  fries  in  hell's  drouth  salt  the  flame  be  in 
your  mouth. 
For  the  treachery  you  did  in  Aghadoe! 

'  For  they  tracked  me  to  that  glen  in  Aghadoe,  Aghadoe, 
When  the  price  was  on  his  head  in  Aghadoe ; 

O'er  the  mountain  through  the  wood,   as   I   stole  to  him 
with  food, 
When  in  hiding  lone  he  lay  in  Aghadoe. 

But  they  never  took  him  living  in  Aghadoe,  Aghadoe; 
With  the  bullets  in  his  heart  in  Aghadoe, 
There  he  lay,  the  head — my  breast  keeps  the  warmth  where 
once  'twould  rest — 
Gone,  to  win  the  traitor's  gold  from  Aghadoe ! 

I  walked  to  Mallow  Town  from  Aghadoe,  Aghadoe, 
Brought  his  head  from  the  gaol's  gate  to  Aghadoe, 

240  ' 


Then   I  covered  him   with   fern,   and   I   piled   on  him   the 
cairn, 
Like  an  Irish  king  he  sleeps  in  Aghadoe. 

Oh,  to  creep  into  that  cairn  in  Aghadoe,  Aghadoe! 
There  to  rest  upon  his  breast  in  Aghadoe! 

Sure  your  dog  for  you  could  die  with  no  truer  heart  than 
I— 
Your  own  love  cold  on  your  cairn  in  Aghadoe. 

John  Todhunter. 


241 


The   Burial   of  Sir  John   Moore 

'M'OT  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning, 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern   dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said. 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought  as  we  hollow'd  his  narrow  bed, 
And  smooth'd  down  his  lonely  pillow. 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his 
head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow! 


242 


Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him, 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 
When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the   foe   was   sullenly   firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 
From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone- 
But  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory! 

Charles  Wolfe. 


243 


Lament  for  Thomas  Davis 

J  WALKED  through  Ballinderry  in  the  spring-time. 

When  the  bud  was  on  the  tree; 
And  I  said,  in  every  fresh-ploughed  field  beholding 

The  sowers  striding  free, 
Scattering  broadside  forth  the  corn  in  golden  plenty 

On  the  quick  seed-clasping  soil, 
"Even  such  this  day,  among  the  fresh-stirred  hearts  of  Erin, 
Thomas  Davis,  is  thy  toil." 

I  sat  by  Ballyshannon  in  the  summer, 

And  saw  the  salmon  leap; 
And  I  said,  as  I  beheld  the  gallant  creatures 

Spring  glittering  from  the  deep, 
Through   the    spray,   and   through   the   prone   heaps    striving 
onward 

To  the  calm,  clear  streams  above, 
"So    seekest    thou    thy    native    founts    of    freedom,    Thomas 
Davis, 

In  thy  brightness  of  strength  and  love." 

I  stood  in  Derrybawn  in  the  autumn, 

And  I  heard  the  eagle  call. 
With  a  clangorous  cry  of  wrath  and  lamentation 

That  filled  the  wide  mountain  hall,  ^ 

O'er  the  bare,  deserted  place  of  his  plundered  eyrie; 

And  I  said,  as  he  screamed  and  soared, 
"So  callest  thou,  thou   wrathful,   soaring  Thomas   Davis, 

For  a  nation's  rights  restored  I" 


244 


And,  alas !  to  think  but  now,  and  thou  art  lying, 

Dear  Davis,  dead  at  thy  mother's  knee; 
And  I,  no  mother  near,  on  my  own  sick-bed, 

That  face  on  earth  shall  never  see; 
I  may  lie  and  try  to  feel  that  I  am  dreaming, 

I  may  lie  and  try  to  say,  "Thy  will  be  done," 
But  a  hundred  such  as  I  will  never  comfort  Erin 

For  the  loss  of  the  noble  son! 

Young  husbandman  of  Erin's  fruitful  seed-time. 

In  the  fresh  track  of  danger's  plough! 
Who  will  walk  the  heavy,  toilsome,  perilous  furrow. 

Girt  with  freedom's  seed-sheets,  now? 
Who  will  banish  with  the  wholesome  crop  of  knowledge 

The  daunting  weed  and  the  bitter  thorn, 
Now  that  thou  thyself  art  but  a  seed  for  hopeful  planting 

Against  the  Resurrection  morn? 

Young  salmon  of  the  flood-tide  of  freedom 

That  swells  round  Erin's  shore! 
Thou  wilt  leap  against  their  loud  oppressive  torrent 

Of  bigotry  and  hate  no  more; 
Drawn  downward  by  their  prone  material  instinct, 

Let  them  thunder  on  their  rocks  and  foam — 
Thou  hast  leapt,  aspiring  soul,  to  founts  beyond  their  raging. 

Where  troubled  waters  never  come! 

But  I  grieve  not,  Eagle  of  the  empty  eyrie, 

That  thy  wrathful  cry  is  still; 
And  that  the  songs  alone  of  peaceful  mourners 

Are  heard  to-day  on  Earth's  hill ; 
Better  far,  if  brothers'  war  be  destined  for  us 

(God  avert  that  horrid  day  I  pray). 
That  ere  our  hands  be  stained  with  slaughter  fratricidal, 

Thy  warm  heart  should  be  cold  in  clay. 


245 


But  my  trust  is  strong  in  God,  Who  made  us  brothers, 

That  He  will  not  suffer  their  right  hands, 
Which  thou  hast  joined  in  holier  rites  than  wedlock 

To  draw  opposing  brands. 
Oh,  many  a  tuneful  tongue  that  thou  madest  vocal 

Would  lie  cold  and  silent  then; 
And   songless   long  once  more,   should   often-widowed   Erin 

Mourn  the  loss  of  her  brave  young  men. 

Oh,  brave  young  men,  my  love,  my  pride,  my  promise, 

Tis  on  you  my  hopes  are  set. 
In  manliness,  in  kindliness,  in  justice, 

To  make  Erin  a  nation  yet; 
Self-respecting,  self-relying,  self -advancing — 

In  union  or  in  severance,  free  and  strong — 
And  if  God  grant  this,  then,  under  God,  to  Thomas  Davis 

Let  the  greater  praise  belong. 

Sir  Samuel  Ferguson. 

See  Note  Page  352. 


246 


Parnell 

T^EARS  will  betray  all  pride,  but  when  ye  mourn  him. 

Be  it  in  soldier  wise; 
As  for  a  captain  who  hath  greatly  borne  him, 
And  in  the  midnight  dies. 

Fewness  of  words  is  best;  he  was  too  great 

For  ours  or  any  phrase. 
Love  could  not  guess,  nor  the  slipped  hound  of  hate 

Track  his  soul's  secret  ways. 

Signed  with  a  sign,  unbroken,  unrevealed, 

His  Calvary  he  trod ; 
So  let  him  keep,  where  all  world-wounds  are  healed 

The  silences  of  God. 

Yet  is  he  Ireland's,  too:  a  flaming  coal 

Lit  at  the  stars,  and  sent 
To  burn  the  sin  of  patience  from  her  soul 

The  scandal  of  content. 

A  name  to  be  a  trumpet  of  attack; 

And,  in  the  evil  stress, 
For  England's  iron  No!  to  fling  her  back 

A  grim,  granatic  Yes. 

He  taught  us  more,  this  best  as  it  was  last: 

When  comrades  go  apart 
They  shall  go  greatly,  cancelling  the  past, 

Slaying  the  kindlier  heart. 


247 


Friendship  and  love,  all  clean  things  and  unclean, 

Shall  be  as  drifted  leaves, 
Spurned  by  our  Ireland's   feet,  that  queenliest  Queen 

Who  gives  not,  but  receives. 

So  freedom  comes,  and  comes  no  other  wise; 

He  gave — "The  Chief"  gave  well; 
Limned  in  his  blood  across  your  clearing  skies 

Look  up  and    read:    Parnell! 

Thomas  Kettle. 


248 


Synge^s   Grave 

|L|  Y  grief  1  that  they  have  laid  you  in  the  town 

Within  the  moidher  of  its  thousand  wheels 
And  busy  feet  that  travel  up  and  down. 

They  had  a  right  to  choose  a  better  bed 
Far  off  among  the  hills  where  silence  steals 
In  on  the  soul  with  comfort-bringing  tread. 

The  curlew  would  have  keened  for  you  all  day, 
The  wind  across  the  heather  cried  Ochone 
For  sorrow  of  his  brother  gone  away. 

In  Glenmalure,  far  off  from  town-bred  men, 
Why  would  they  not  have  left  your  sleep  alone 
At  peace  there  in  the  shadow  of  the  glen? 

To  tend  your  grave  you  should  have  had  the  sun. 
The  fraughan  and  the  moss,  the  heather  brown 
And  gorse  turned  gold  for  joy  of  Spring  begun. 

You  should  have  had  your  brothers,  wind  and  rain. 
And  in  the  dark  the  stars  all  looking  down 
To  ask,  "When  will  he  take  the  road  again?" 

The  herdsmen  of  the  lone  back  hills,  that  drive 
The  mountain  ewes  to  some  far  distant  fair. 
Would  stand  and  say,  "We  knew  him  well  alive, 


249 


That  God  may  rest  his  soul !"  then  they  would  pass 

Into  the  silence  brooding  everywhere, 

And  leave  you  to  your  sleep  below  the  grass. 

But  now  among  these  alien  city  graves, 

What  way  are  you  without  the  rough  wind's  breath 

You  free-born  son  of  mountains  and  wild  waves? 

Ah !  God  knows  better — here  you've  no  abode, 
So  long  ago  you  had  the  laugh  at  death, 
And  rose  and  took  the  windswept  mountain  road. 

Winifred  Letts. 


250 


To   a  Bead  Poet 

T  SPEAK  your  name — a  magic  thing — 

Jocund  April  takes  my  hand, 
Golden  birds  begin  to  sing, 
Laughter  fills  the  silver  land. 

I  speak  your  name — a  Matin  bell — 
Buoyant,  godlike,  you  arise — 
Flinging  far  the  slumber-spell 
Laid  upon  your  heart  and  eyes. 

I  speak  your  name — and  Summer's  here — 
Glad  beyond  all  Summers  gone — 
And  you  are  shining  like  the  spear 
God  fashioned  in  His  first  day*s  dawn. 
Eleanor  Rogers  Cox. 


251 


The  Dead  Aviator 

go  ENDLESSLY  the  gray-lipped  sea 

Kept  me  within  his  eye, 
And  lean  he  licked  his  hollow  flanks 
And  followed  up  the  sky. 

I  was  the  lark  whose  song  was  heard 

When  I  was  lost  to  sight, 

I  was  the  golden  arrow  loosed 

To  pierce  the  heart  of  night. 

I  fled  the  little  earth,  I  climbed 
Above  the  rising  sun, 
I  met  the  morning  in  a  blaze 
Before  my  hour  was  gone. 

I  ran  beyond  the  rim  of  space, 

Its  reins  I  flung  aside. 

Laughter  was  mine  and  mine  was  youth 

And  all  my  own  was  pride. 

From  end  to  end  I  knew  the  way 
I  had  no  doubt  nor  fear 
The  minutes  were  a  forfeit  paid 
To  fetch  the  landfall  near. 


252 


But  all  at  once  my  heart  I  held, 
My  carol  frozen  died, 
A  white  cloud  laid  her  cheek  to  mine 
And  wove  me  to  her  side. 

Her  icy  fingers  clasped  my  flesh, 
Her  hair  drooped  in  my  face, 
And  up  we  fell  and  down  we  rose 
And  twisted  into  space. 

Laughter  was  mine  and  mine  was  youth, 
I  pressed  the  edge  of  life, 
I  kissed  the  sun  and  raced  the  wind, 
I  found  immortal  strife. 

Out  of  myself  I  spent  myself, 
I  lost  the  mortal  share. 
My  grave  is  in  the  ashen  plain, 
My  spirit  in  the  air. 

Good-bye,  sweet  pride  of  man  that  flew. 
Sweet  pain  of  man  that  bled, 
I  was  the  lark  that  spilled  his  heart, 
The  golden  arrow  sped. 

So  endlessly  the  gray-lipped  sea 
Kept  me  within  his  eye 
And  lean  he  licked  his  hollow  flanks 
And  followed  up  the  sky. 

Francis   Hackett. 


253 


Lament  for  Sean  MacDermott 

'X'HEY  have  slain  you,  Sean  MacDermott;  never  more  these 

eyes  will  greet 
The  eyes  beloved  by  women,   and  the   smile  that  true  men 

loved ; 
Never  more  I'll  hear  the  stick-tap,  and  the  gay  and  limping 

feet. 
They  have  slain  you,  Sean  the  gentle,  Sean  the  valiant,  Sean 

the  proved. 

Have  you  scorn  for  us  who  linger  here  behind  you,  Sean  the 

wise? 
As  you  look  about  and  greet  your  comrades  in  the  strange 

new  dawn. 
So  one  says,  but  saying,  wrongs  you,  for  doubt  never  dimmed 

your  eyes. 
And  not  death   itself  could  make  those  lips  of  yours  grow 

bitter,  Sean. 

As   your   stick  goes   tapping   down  the   heavenly  pavement, 

Sean,  my  friend, 
That  is  not  your  way  of  thinking,  generous,  tender,  wise  and 

brave ; 
We,  who  knew  and  loved  and  trusted  you,  are  trusted  to  the 

end. 
And  your  hand  even  now  grips  mine  as  though  there  never  | 

were  a  grave. 

Seumas  O'Suluvan. 


254 


Lament  for  Thomas  MacDonagh 

JJE  SHALL  not  hear  the  bittern  cry 

In  the  wild  sky,  where  he  is  lain, 
Nor  voices  of  the  sweeter  birds 
Above  the  wailing  of  the  rain. 

Nor  shall  he  know  when  loud  March  blows 
Thro'  slanting  snows  her  fanfare  shrill, 
Blowing  to  flame  the  golden  cup 
Of  many  an  upset  daffodil. 

But  when  the  Dark  Cow  leaves  the  moor. 
And  pastures  poor  with  greedy  weeds, 
Perhaps  he'll  hear  her  low  at  morn, 
Lifting  her  horn  in  pleasant  meads. 

Francis  Ledwidge. 


255 


Lament  for  the  Poets:   igi6 

J  HEARD  the  Poor  Old  Woman  say: 

"At  break  of  day  the  fowler  came, 
And  took  my  blackbirds  from  their  songs 
Who  loved  me  well  thro'  shame  and  blame. 


No  more  from  lovely  distances 
Their  songs  shall  bless  me  mile  by  mile, 
Nor  to  white  Ashbourne  call  me  down 
To  wear  my  crown  another  while. 

With  bended  flowers  the  angels  mark 
For  the  skylark  the  place  they  lie. 
From  there  its  little  family 
Shall  dip  their  wings  first  in  the  sky. 

And  when  the  first  surprise  of  flight 
Sweet  songs  excite,  from  the  far  dawn 
Shall  there  come  blackbirds  loud  with  love. 
Sweet  echoes  of  the  singers  gone. 

But  in  the  lonely  hush  of  eve 
Weeping  I  grieve  the  silent  bills." 
I  heard  the  Poor  Old  Woman  say 
In  Derry  of  the  little  hills. 

Francis  Ledwidge. 


256 


How  Oft  Has  the  Banshee  Cried 

"LTOW  oft  has  the  Banshee  cried! 

How  oft  has  death  untied 
Bright  links  that  Glory  wove, 
Sweet  bonds  entwined  by  Love ! 

Peace  to  each  manly  soul  that  sleepeth; 

Rest  to  each  faithful  eye  that  weepeth; 
Long  may  the  fair  and  brave 
Sigh  o'er  the  hero's  grave! 

We're  fallen  on  evil  days! 
Star  after  star  decays, 
Every  bright  name  that  shed 
Light  o'er  the  land  is  fled. 
Dark  falls  the  tear  of  him  that  mourneth 
Lost  joy,  or  hope  that  ne'er  returneth: 
But  brightly  flows  the  tear 
Wept  o'er  a  hero's  bier. 

Quenched  are  our  beacon  lights — 
Thou,  of  the  Hundred  Fights ! 
Thou,  on  whose  burning  tongue 
Truth,  peace  and  freedom  hung! 
Both  mute — ^but  long  as  valor  shineth, 
Or  mercy's  soul  at  war  repineth. 
So  long  shall  Erin's  pride 
Tell  how  they  lived  and  died. 

Thomas    Moore. 


257 


PART   VI 
OUR  HERITAGE 


The  Downfall  of  the  Gael 

iy|Y  HEART  is  in  woe, 

And  my  soul  deep  in  trouble, — 
For  the  mighty  are  low, 
And  abased  are  the  noble: 

The  Sons  of  the  Gael 
Are  in  exile  and  mourning, 
Worn,  weary,  and  pale 
As   spent  pilgrims   returning; 

Or  men  who,  in  flight 
From  the  field  of  disaster. 
Beseech  the  black  night 
On  their  flight  to  fall  faster; 

Or  seamen  aghast 
When  their  planks  gape  asunder, 
And  the  waves  fierce  and  fast 
Tumble  through  in  hoarse  thunder; 

Or  men  whom  we  see 

That  have  got  their  death-omen, — 

Such  wretches  are  we 

In  the  chains  of  our  foemen! 

Our  courage  is ,  fear. 

Our  nobility  vileness. 

Our  hope  is  despair, 

And  our  comeliness  foulness. 


261 


There  is  mist  on  our  heads, 
And  a  cloud  chill  and  hoary 
Of  black  sorrow,  sheds 
An  eclipse  on  our  glory. 

From  Boyne  to  the  Linn 
Has  the  mandate  been  given, 
That  the  children  of  Finn 
From  their  country  be  driven. 

That  the  sons  of  the  king — 
Oh,  the  treason  and  malice! — 
Shall  no  more  ride  the  ring 
In  their  own  native  valleys; 

No  more  shall  repair 
Where  the  hill  foxes  tarry, 
Nor  forth  to  the  air 
Fling  the  hawk  at  her  quarry : 

For  the  plain  shall  be  broke 
By  the  share  of  the  stranger, 
And  the  stone-mason's  stroke 
Tell  the  woods  of  their  danger; 

The  green  hills  and  shore 
Be   with   white   keeps   disfigured, 
And  the  Mote  of  Rathmore 
Be  the  Saxon  churl's  haggard! 

The  land  of  the  lakes 

Shall  no  more  ^now  the  prospect 

Of  valleys  and  brakes — 

So  transformed  is  her  aspect! 


262 


The  Gael  cannot  tell, 

In  the  uprooted  wildwood 

And  the  red  ridgy  dell, 

The  old  nurse  of  his  childhood: 

The  nurse  of  his  youth 
Is  in  doubt  as  she  views  him, 
If  the  wan  wretch,  in  truth, 
Be  the  child  of  her  bosom. 

We  starve  by  the  board. 
And  we  thirst  amid  wassail — 
For  the  guest  is  the  lord. 
And  the  host  is  the  vassal! 

Through  the  woods  let  us  roam, 
Through  the  wastes  wild  and  barren; 
We  are  strangers  at  home! 
We  are  exiles  in  Erin ! 

And  Erin's  a  bark 
O'er  the  wide  waters  driven! 
And  the  tempest  howls  dark, 
And  her  side  planks  are  riven  1 

And  in  billows  of  might 
Swell  the  Saxon  before  her, — 
Unite,  oh^  unite! 
Or  the  billows  burst  o'er  her ! 
Translated  by  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson. 
See  Note  Page  352. 


263 


Lament  for  Banha 

Q  MY  land !    O  my  love ! 

What  a  woe,  and  how  deep, 
Is  thy  death  to  my  long  mourning-  soull 
God  alone,  God  above, 
Can  awake  thee  from  sleep, 
Can  release  thee  from  bondage  and  dole! 
Alas,  alas,  and  alas ! 

For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banbal 

As  a  tree  in  its  prime, 

Which  the  axe  layeth  low. 
Didst  thou  fall,  O  unfortunate  land! 

Not  by  time,  nor  thy  crime, 

Came  the  shock  and  the  blow. 
They  were  given  by  a  false  felon  hand! 

Alas,  alas,  and  alas! 

For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banba! 

O,  my  grief  of  all  griefs 

Is  to  see  how  thy  throne 
Is  usurped,  whilst  thyself  art  in  thrall! 

Other  lands  have  their  chiefs. 

Have  their  kings,  thou  alone 
Art  a  wife,  yet  a  widow  withal! 

Alas,  alas,  and  alas ! 

For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banba  I 


264 


The  high  house  of  O'Neill 

Is  gone  down  to  the  dust, 
The  O'Brien  is  clanless  and  banned; 

And  the  steel,  the  red  steel 

May  no  more  be  the  trust 
Of  the  Faithful  and  Brave  in  the  land ! 

Alas,  alas,  and  alas! 

For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banbal 

True,  alas !     Wrong  and  Wrath 

Were  of  old  all  too  rife. 
Deeds  were  done  which  no  good  man  admires 

And  perchance  Heaven  hath 

Chastened  us  for  the  strife 
And  the  blood-shedding  ways  of  our  sires ! 

Alas,  alas,  and  alas ! 

For  the  once  proud  people  of  Banba! 

But,  no  more!    This  our  doom. 
While  our  hearts  yet  are  warm, 

Let  us  not  over  weakly  deplore! 
For  the  hour  soon  may  loom 
When  the  Lord's  mighty  hand 

Shall  be  raised  for  our  rescue  once  more! 
And  all  our  grief  shall  be  turned  into  joy 
For  the  still  proud  people  of  Banba ! 

Translated  by  James  Clarence  Mangan. 


See  Note  Page  352. 


265 


Tara  Is  Grass  | 

TpHE  world  hath  conquered,  the  wind  hath  scattered  like 

dust  ^i 

Alexander,  Caesar,  and  all  that  shared  their  sway:  |j 

Tara  is  grass,  and  behold  how  Troy  lieth  low — 
And  even  the  English,  perchance  their  hour  will  come! 

Translated  by  Padraic  Pearse. 


266 


Kathleen-Ni'Houlahan 

T    ONG  they  pine  in  weary  woe,  the  nobles  of  our  land, 

Long   they    wander    to    and    fro,    proscribed,    alas !    and 
banned ; 

Feastless,  houseless,  altarless,  they  bear  the  exile's  brand, 
But  their  hope  is  in  the  coming-to  of  Kathleen-Ni-Houla- 
han! 

Think  her  not  a  ghastly  hag,  too  hideous  to  be  seen. 
Call  her  not  unseemly  names,  our  matchless  Kathleen; 
Young  is  she,  and  fair  she  is,  and  would  be  crowned  a  queen, 
Were  the  King's   son  at  home  here  with  Kathleen-Ni- 
Houlahan ! 

Sweet  and  mild  would  look  her  face,  O  none  so  sweet  and 

mild, 
Could  she  crush  her  foes  by  whom  her  beauty  is  reviled; 
Woollen  plaids  would  grace  herself  and   robes   of  silk  her 

child, 
If  the   King's   son  were  living  here  with   Kathleen-Ni- 

Houlahan  I 

Sore  disgrace  it  is  to  see  the  Arbitress  of  Thrones 
Vassal  to  a  Saxoneen  of  cold  and  sapless  bones ! 
Bitter  anguish  wrings  our  souls — with  heavy  sighs  and  groans 
We  wait  the  Young  Deliverer  of  Kathleen-Ni-Houlahan ! 


267 


Let  us  pray  to  Him  who  holds  Life's  issues  in  his  hands — 
Him   who   formed  the  mighty  globe,   with   all  its   thousand 

lands  ; 
Girding   them    with    seas    and   mountains,    rivers    deep,    and 

strands, 
To  cast  a  look  of  pity  upon  Kathleen-Ni-Houlahan  I 

He,  who  over  sands  and  waves  led  Israel  along — 

He,   who   fed,   with  heavenly  bread,  that  chosen   tribe   and 

throng — 
He,   who   stood  by  Moses,   when  his   foes  were   fierce  and 
strong — 
May  He  show  forth  His  might  in  saving  Kathleen-Ni- 
Houlahan. 

Translated  by  James  Clarence  Mangan. 


268 


Dark  Rosaleen 

f\  MY  dark  Rosaleen, 

Do  not  sigh,  do  not  weep! 
The  priests  are  on  the  ocean  green, 

They  march  along  the  deep. 
There's  wine  from  the  royal  Pope, 

Upon  the  ocean  green; 
And  Spanish  ale  shall  give  you  hope, 

My  dark  Rosaleen! 

My  own  Rosaleen! 
Shall  glad  your  heart,  shall  give  you  hope. 
Shall  give  you  health  and  help,  and  hope. 

My  Dark  Rosaleen. 

Over  hills,  and  through  dales, 

Have  I  roamed  for  your  sake; 
All  yesterday  I  sailed  with  sails 

On  river  and  on  lake. 
The  Erne,  at  its  highest  flood, 

i  dashed  across  unseen, 
For  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

My  dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 
Oh!  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 
Red  lightning  lightened  through  my  blood, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen! 


269 


All  day  long  in  unrest, 

To  and  fro  do  I  move, 
The  very  soul  within  my  breast 

Is  wasted  for  you,  love! 
The  heart  in  my  bosom  faints 

To  think  of  you,  my  Queen, 
My  life  of  life,  my  saint  of  saints. 

My  dark  Rosaleen! 

My  own  Rosaleen! 
To  hear  your  sweet  and  sad  complaints, 
My  life,  my  love,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

Woe  and  pain,  pain  and  woe. 

Are  my  lot,  night  and  noon, 
To  see  your  bright  face  clouded  so. 

Like  to  the  mournful  moon. 
But  yet  will  I  rear  your  throne 

Again  in  golden  sheen; 
Tis  you  shall  reign,  shall  reign  alone, 

My  dark  Rosaleen! 

My  own  Rosaleen! 
*Tis  you  shall  have  the  golden  throne, 
'Tis  you  shall  reign,  shall  reign  alone. 

My  Dark  Rosaleen! 

Over  dews,  over  sands. 

Will  I  fly  for  your  weal: 
Your  holy,  delicate  white  hands 

Shall  girdle  me  with  steel. 
At  home  in  your  emerald  bowers. 

From  morning's  dawn  till  e*en. 
You'll  pray  for  me,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  dark  Rosaleen ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen.! 
You'll  think  of  me  through  daylight's  hours. 
My  virgin  flower,  my  flower  of  flowers. 

My  Dark  Rosaleen! 


270 


I  could  scale  the  blue  air, 

I  could  plough  the  high  hills, 
Oh,  I  could  kneel  all  night  in  prayer, 

To  heal  your  many  ills ! 
And  one  beamy  smile  from  you 

Would  float  like  light  between 
My  toils  and  me,  my  own,  my  true. 

My  dark  Rosaleen! 

My  fond  Rosaleen ! 
Would  give  me  life  and  soul  anew, 
A  second  life,  a  soul  anew. 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

O !  the  Erne  shall  run  red 

With  redundance  of  blood, 
The  earth  shall  rock  beneath  our  tread, 

And  flames  wrap  hill  and  wood. 
And  gun-peal,  and  slogan  cry 

Wake  many  a  glen  serene. 
Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  shall  die, 

My  dark  Rosaleen! 

My  own  Rosaleen ! 
The  Judgment  Hour  must  first  be  nigh 
Ere  you  can  fade,  ere  you  can  die. 

My  Dark  Rosaleen! 

Translated  by  James  Clarence  Mangan. 
See  Note  Page  353. 


271 


Roisin  Dubh 

C\  WHO  are  thou  with  that  queenly  brow 

And  uncrowned  head? 
And  why  is  the  vest  that  binds  thy  breast, 
O'er  the  heart,  blood-red? 
Like  a  rose-bud  in  June  that  spot  at  noon, 
A  rose-bud  weak; 

But  it  deepens  and  grows  like  a  July  rose : 
Death-pale  thy  cheek. 

"The  babes  I  fed  at  my  foot  lay  dead ; 

I  saw  them  die; 

In  Ramah  a  blast  went  wailing  past; 

It  was  Rachel's  cry. 

But  I  stand  sublime  on  the  shores  of  Time, 

And  I  pour  mine  ode, 

As  Miriam  sang  to  the  cymbals'  clang. 

On  the  wind  to  God. 

"Once  more  at  my  feasts  my  bards  and  priests 

Shall   sit  and  eat: 

And  the  Shepherd  whose  sheep  are  on  every  steep 

Shall  bless  my  meat; 

Oh,  sweet,  men  say,  is  the  song  by  day. 

And  the  feast  by  night; 

But  on  poisons  I  thrive,  and  in  death  survive 

Through   ghostly  night." 

Aubrey  de  Verb. 
See  Note  Page  353. 


272 


The  Dark  Palace 

nPHERE  beams  no  light  from  thy  hall  to-night, 

Oh,  House  of  Fame ; 
No  mead-vat  seethes  and  no  smoke  upwreathes 

O'er  the  hearth's  red  flame ; 
No  high  bard  sings  for  the  joy  of  thy  kings. 

And  no  harpers  play; 
No  hostage  moans  as  thy  dungeon  rings 

As  in  Muircherteach's  day. 

Fallen !  fallen !  to  ruin  all  in 

The  covering  mould ; 
The  painted  yew,  and  the  curtains  blue, 

And  the  cups  of  gold; 
The  linen,  yellow  as  the  corn  when  mellow. 

That  the  princes  wore ; 
And  the  mirrors  brazen  for  your  queens  to  gaze  in. 

They  are  here  no  more. 

The  sea-bird's  pinion  thatched  Gormlai's  grinnan ; 

And  through  windows  clear. 
Without  crystal  pane,  in  her  Ard-righ's  reign 

She  looked  from  here 
There  were  quilts  of  eider  on  her  couch  of  cedar ; 

And  her  silken  shoon 
Were  as  green  and  soft  as  the  leaves  aloft 

On  a  bough  in  June. 


273 


Ah,  woe  unbounded  where  the  harp  once  sounded 

The  wind  now  sings; 
The  grey  grass  shivers  where  the  mead  in  rivers 

Was  outpoured  for  kings; 
The  min  and  the  mether  are  lost  together 

With  the  spoil  of  the  spears ; 
The  strong  dun  only  has  stood  dark  and  lonely 

Through,  a  thousand  years. 

But  I'm  not  in  woe  for  the  wine-cup's  flow, 

For  the  banquet's  cheer, 
For  tall  princesses  with  their  trailing  tresses 

And  their  broidered  gear; 
My  grief  and  my  trouble  for  this  palace  noble 

With  no  chief  to  lead 
'Gainst  the  Saxon  stranger  on  the  day  of  danger 

Out  of  Aileach  Neid. 

Alice  Milligan. 


274 


After  Death 

OHALL  mine  eyes  behold  thy  glory,  oh,  my  country? 

Shall  mine  eyes  behold  thy  glory? 
Or  shall  the  darkness  close  around  them  ere  the   sun-blaze 
Break  at  last  upon  thy  story? 

When  the  nations  ope  for  thee  their  queenly  circle, 

As  sweet  new  sister  hail  thee, 
Shall  these  lips  be  sealed  in  callous  death  and  silence, 

That  have  known  but  to  bewail  thee? 

Shall  the  ear  be  deaf  that  only  loved  thy  praises. 

When  all  men  their  tribute  bring  thee? 
Shall  the  mouth  be  clay  that  sang  thee  in  thy  squalor, 

When  all  poets*  mouths  shall  sing  thee? 

Ah!  the  harpings  and  the  salvos  and  the  shoutings 

Of  thy  exiled  sons  returning, 
I  should  hear,  tho*  dead  and  mouldered,  and  the  grave-damps 

Should  not  chill  my  bosom's  burning. 

Ah!  the  tramp  of  feet  victorious!    I  should  hear  them 

*Mid  the  shamrocks  and  the  mosses, 
And  my  heart  should  toss  within  the  shroud  and  quiver 

As  a  captive  dreamer  tosses. 

I  should  turn  and  rend  the  cere-cloths  round  me — 

Giant  sinews  I  should  borrow — 
Crying,  "Oh,  my  brothers,  I  have  also  loved  her 

In  her  loneliness  and  sorrow! 


275 


"Let  me  join  with  you  the  jubilant  procession, 

Let  me  chant  with  you  her  story; 
Then,  contented,  I  shall  go  back  to  the  shamrocks, 

Now  mine  eyes  have  seen  her  glory!" 

Fanny  Parnell. 


276 


Ways  of  War 

A    TERRIBLE  and  splendid  trust, 

Heartens  the  host  of  Innisfail; 
Their  dream  is  of  the  swift  sword-thrust; 
The  lightning  glory  of  the  Gael. 

Croagh  Patrick  is  the  place  of  prayers, 
And  Tara  the  assembling  place: 

But  each  sweet  wind  of  Ireland  bears 
The  trump  of  battle  on  its  race. 

From  Dursey  Isle  to  Donegal, 
From  Howth  to  Achill,  the  glad  noise 

Rings:  and  the  airs  of  glory  fall, 
Or  victory  crowns  their  fighting  joys. 

A  dream  I  a  dream  I  an  ancient  dream ! 

Yet,  ere  peace  come  to  Innisfail, 
Some  weapons  on  some  field  must  gleam, 

Some  burning  glory  fire  the  Gael. 

That  field  may  lie  beneath  the  sun, 
Fair  for  the  treading  of  an  host: 

That  field  in  realms  of  thought  be  won 
And  armed  minds  do  their  uttermost. 

Some  way,  to  faithful  Innisfail, 
Shall  come  the  majesty  and  awe 

Of  martial  truth,  that  must  prevail. 
To  lay  on  all  the  eternal  law. 

Lionel  Johnson. 


277 


This  Heritage  to  the  Race  of  Kings 

'T'HIS  heritage  to  the  race  of  kings, 

Their  children  and  their  children's  seed 
Have  wrought  their  prophecies  in  deed 
Of  terrible  and  splendid  things. 

The  hands  that  fought,  the  hearts  that  broke 
In  old  immortal  tragedies, 
These  have  not  failed  beneath  the  skies, 
Their  children's  heads  refuse  the  yoke. 

And  still  their  hands  shall  guard  the  sod 
That  holds  their  father's  funeral  urn. 
Still  shall  their  hearts  volcanic  burn 
With  anger  of  the  sons  of  God. 

No  alien  sword  shall  earn  as  wage 
The  entail  of  their  blood  and  tears. 
No  shameful  price  for  peaceful  years 
Shall  ever  part  this  heritage. 

Joseph  Plunkett. 


278 


The  Irish  Rapparees 

"D  IGH  SHEMUS  he  has  gone  to  France,  and  left  his  crown 

•*^  behind; 

111  luck  be  theirs,   both  day  and  night,  put  running  in  his 

mind 
Lord  Lucan  followed  after,  with  his  Slashers  brave  and  true, 
And  now  the  doleful  keen  is  raised — "What  will  poor  Ireland 

do? 
What  must  poor  Ireland  do? 
Our  luck,"   they  say,   "has   gone  to   France — what  can  poor 

Ireland  do?" 


Oh!  never  fear  for  Ireland,  for  she  has  soldiers  still; 
For  Rory's  boys  are  in  the  wood,  and  Remy's  on  the  hill; 
And  never  had  poor  Ireland  more  loyal  hearts  than  these — 
May  God  be  kind  and  good  to  them,  the  faithful  Rapparees 
The  fearless  Rapparees ! 
The  jewel  were  you,  Rory,  with  your  Irish  Rapparees! 

Oh,  black's  your  heart,  Clan  Oliver,  and  colder  than  the  clay! 
Oh,  high's  your  head,  Clan  Sassenach,  since  Sarsfield's  gone 

away! 
It's  little  love  you  bear  to  us,  for  the  sake  of  long  ago 
But  hold  your  hand,   for  Ireland  still  can  strike  a   deadly 

blow — 
Can  strike  a  mortal  blow — 
Och,  dar-a-Criost  'tis  she  that  still 
Could  strike  a  deadly  blow. 


279 


The  Master's  bawn,  the  Master's  seat,  a  surly  bodagh  fills; 

The  Master's  son,  an  outlawed  man,  is  riding  on  the  hills. 

But  God  be  praised  that  round  him  throng,  as  thick  as  sum- 
mer bees, 

The  swords  that  guarded  Limerick  wall-^is  faithful  Rap-   » 
parees !  I 

His  loving  Rapparees! 

Who  dare  say  "no"  to  Rory  Oge,  with  all  his  Rapparees? 

Black  Billy  Grimes  of  Latnamard,  he  racked  us  long  and 

sore — 
God  rest  the  faithful  hearts  he  broke!— we'll  never  see  them 

more 
But  I'll  go  bail  he'll  break  no  more,  while  Truagh  has  gallows 

trees ; 
For  why? — he  met  one  lonely  night,  the  fearless  Rapparees 
The  angry  Rapparees! 
They  never  sin  no  more,  my  boys,  who  cross  the  Rapparees. 

Now,  Sassenach  and  Cromweller,  take  heed  of  what  I  say — 
Keep  down  your  black  and  angry  looks,  that  scorn  us  night 

and  day: 
For  there's  a  just  and  wrathful  Judge,  that  every  action  sees, 
And  He'll  make  strong,  to  right  our  wrong,  the  faithful  Rap- 
parees ! 
The  fearless  Rapparees! 

The  men  that  rode  by  Sarsfield's  side,  the  roving  Rapparees! 

Charles  Gavan  Duffy. 
See  Note  Page  353. 


The  Memory  of  the  Dead 

J^JIO  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-Eight? 

Who  blushes  at  the  name? 
When  cowards  mock  the  patriot's  fate, 
Who  hangs  his  head  for  shame? 
He's  all  a  knave,  or  half  a  slave, 
Who  slights  his  country  thus; 
But  a  true  man,  like,  you,  man. 
Will  fill  your  glass  with  us. 

We  drink  the  memory  of  the  brave. 

The  faithful  and  the  few: 

Some  lie  far  off  beyond  the  wave. 

Some  sleep  in  Ireland,  too; 

All,  all  are  gone ;  but  still  lives  on 

The  fame  of  those  who  died; 

All  true  men,  like  you,  men. 

Remember  them  with  pride. 

Some  on  the  shores  of  distant  lands 
Their  weary  hearts  have  laid, 
And  by  the  stranger's  heedless  hands 
Their  lonely  graves  were  made; 
But,  though  their  clay  be  far  away 
Beyond  the  Atlantic  foam, 
In  true  men,  like  you,  men, 
Their  spirit's  still  at  home. 


281 


The  dust  of  some  is  Irish  earth, 

Among  their  own  they  rest, 

And  the  same  land  that  gave  them  birth 

Has  caught  them  to  her  breast; 

And  we  will  pray  that  from  their  clay 

Full  many  a  race  may  start 

Of  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

To  act  as  brave  a  part. 

They  rose  in  dark  and  evil  days 

To  right  their  native  land; 

They  kindled  here  a  living  blaze 

That  nothing  shall  withstand. 

Alas !  that  Might  can  vanquish  Right — 

They  fell  and  passed  away; 

But  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Are  plenty  here  to-day. 

Then  here's  to  their  memory — may  it  be 
For  us  a  guiding  light, 
To  hear  our  strife  for  liberty, 
And  teach  us  to  unite — 
Through  good  and  ill,  be  Ireland's  still. 
Though  sad  as  theirs  your  fate, 
And  true  men,  be  you,  men. 
Like  those  of  Ninety-Eight. 

John  Kelly  Ingram. 


282 


Thro'  Grief  and  Thro*  Danger 

TPHRO*  grief  and  thro'  danger  thy  smile  hath  cheer'd  my 

way, 
Till  hope  seem'd  to  bud  from  each  thorn  that  round  me  lay; 
The  darker  our  fortune,  the  brighter  our  pure  love  burned, 
Till  shame  into  glory,  till  fear  into  zeal  was  turned. 
Oh!  slave  as  I  was,  in  thy  arms  my  spirit  felt  free. 
And  bless'd  e'en  the  sorrows  that  made  me  more  dear  to  thee. 

Thy    rival    was    honoured,    while    thou    wert    wronged    and 

scorned ; 
Thy  crown  was  of  briers,  while  gold  her  brows  adorned; 
She  woo'd  me  to  temples,  while  thou  lay'st  hid  in  caves ; 
Her  friends  were  all  masters,  while  thine,  alas!  were  slaves; 
Yet,  cold  in  the  earth  at  thy  feet  I  would  rather  be,  . 
Than  wed  what  I  lov'd  not,  or  turn  one  thought  from  thee. 

Thomas  Moore. 


283 


The  Irish  Mother  in  the  Penal  Days 

'M'OW  welcome,  welcome,  baby-boy,  unto  a  mother's  fears, 
The  pleasure  of  her  sufferings,  the  rainbow  of  her  tears, 
The  object  of  your  father's  hope,  in  all  he  hopes  to  do, 
A  future  man  of  his  own  land,  to  live  him  o'er  anew ! 

How  fondly  on  thy  little  brow  a  mother's  eye  would  trace, 
And  in  thy  little  limbs,  and  in  each  feature  of  thy  face, 
His  beauty,  worth,  and  manliness,  and  everything  that's  his. 
Except,  my  boy,  the  answering  mark  of  where  the  fetter  is! 

Oh!  many  a  weary  hundred  years  his  sires  that  fetter  wore, 
And  he  has  worn  it  since  the  day  that  him  his  mother  bore; 
And  now,  my  son,  it  waits  on  you,  the  moment  you  are  born ; 
The  old  hereditary  badge  of  suffering  and  scorn  1 

Alas,  my  boy,  so  beautiful ! — alas,  my  love  so  brave ! 
And  must  your  gallant  Irish  limbs  still  drag  it  to  the  grave? 
And  you,  my  son,  yet  have  a  son,  foredoomed  a  slave  to  be. 
Whose  mother  still  must  weep  o'er  him  the  tears  I  weep  o'er 
thee! 

John  Banim. 


284 


A  Song  of  Freedom 

J  N  CAVAN  of  little  lakes, 

As  I  was  walking  with  the  wind, 
And  no  one  seen  beside  me  there, 

There  came  a  song  into  my  mind ; 
It  came  as  if  the  whispered  voice 

Of  one,  but  none  of  human  kind. 
Who  walked  with  me  in  Cavan  then, 
And  he  invisible  as  wind. 

On  Urris  of  Inish-Owen, 

As  I  went  up  the  mountain  side, 
The  brook  that  came  leaping  down 

Cried  to  me — for  joy  it  cried; 
And  when  from  off  the  summit  far 

I  looked  o*er  land  and  water  wide, 
I  was  more  joyous  than  the  brook 

That  met  me  on  the  mountain  side. 

To  Ara  of  Connacht's  isles, 

As  I  went  sailing  o'er  the  sea, 
The  wind's  word,  the  brook's  word, 

The  wave's  word,  was  plain  to  me — 
As  we  are,  though  she  is  not, 

As  we  are,  shall  Banba  be — 
There  is  no  king  can  rule  the  wind, 

There  is  no  fetter  for  the  sea. 

Alice  Mulligan. 


285 


Terence  MacStmney 

C  EE,  though  the  oil  be  low  more  purely  still  and  higher 

The  flame  burns  in  the  body's  lamp !    The  watchers  still 
Gaze  with  unseeing  eyes  while  the  Promethean  Will, 
The  Uncreated  Light,  the  Everlasting  Fire 
Sustains  itself  against  the  torturer's  desire 
Even  as  the  fabled  Titan  chained  upon  the  hill. 
Burn  on,  shine  on,  thou  immortality,  until 
We,  too,  have  lit  our  lamps  at  the  funereal  pyre; 
Till  we,  too,  can  be  noble,  unshakable,  undismayed : 
Till  we,  too,  can  burn  with  the  holy  flame,  and  know 
There  is  that  within  us  can  triumph  over  pain, 
And  go  to  death,  alone,  slowly,  and  unafraid. 
The  candles  of  God  are  already  burning  row  on  row : 
Farewell,  lightbringer,  fly  to  thy  heaven  again ! 

A.   E. 


286 


The  Three  Woes 

'X'HAT  angel  whose  charge   was  Eire  sang  thus,  o'er  the 

dark   Isle  winging; 
By  a  virgin  his  song  was  heard  at  a  tempest's  ruinous  close : 
"Three  golden  ages  God  gave  while  your  tender  green  blade 

was  springing; 
Faith's   earliest  harvest   is   reaped.     To-day   God   sends  you 

three  woes. 

"For  ages  three  without  laws  ye  shall  flee  as  beasts  in  the 

forest ; 
For  an  age  and  a  half  age  faith  shall  bring,  not  peace,  but  a 

sword ; 
Then  laws  shall  rend  you,  like  eagles  sharp-fanged,  of  your 

scourges  the  sorest; 
When  these  three  woes  are  past,  look  up,  for  your  hope  is 

restored. 

"The  times  of  your  woes  shall  be  twice  the  time  of  your 

foregone  glory; 
But    fourfold    at   last   shall   lie   the.  grain   on   your   granary 

floor." 
The  seas  in  vapour  shall  flee,  and  in  ashes  the  mountains 

hoary ; 
Let  God  do  that  which  He  wills.     Let  his  servants  endure 

and  adore!" 

Aubrey  De  Vere. 


287 


PART   VII 
PERSONAL  POEMS 


/ 


I  Am  Raferty 

T  AM  Raferty  the  Poet 

Full  of  hope  and  love, 
With  eyes  that  have  no  light, 

With  gentleness  that  has  no  misery. 

Going  west  upon  my  pilgrimage 

By  the  light  of  my  heart. 
Feeble  and  tired 

To  the  end  of  my  road. 

Behold  me  now, 

And  my  face  to  the  wall, 
A-playing  music 
Unto  empty  pockets. 

Translated  by  Douglas  Hyde. 
See  Note  Page  353. 


291 


At  the  Mid  Hour  of  Night 

/k  T  THE  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I  fly: 
the  lone  vale  we  loved,  when  life  shone  warm  in  thine^ 
eye; 

And  I  think  oft,  if  spirits  can  steal  from  the  regions  of  air. 
To  revisit  past  scenes  of  delight,  thou  wilt  come  to  me  there. 
And  tell  me  our  love  is  remembered,  even  in  the  sky. 

Then  I  sing  the  wild  song  *twas  once  such  pleasure  to  hear' 
When  our  voices  commingling  breathed,  like  one,  on  the  ear; 
And,  as  Echo  far  off  through  the  vale  my  sad  orison  rolls, 
I  think,  oh,  my  love!  *tis  thy  voice   from  the  Kingdom  of 

Souls, 
Faintly  answering  still  the  notes  that  once  were  so  dear. 

Thomas  Moore. 


292 


Night 

|L|YSTERIOUS  Night!    When  our  first  parent  knew 

Thee,  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  Frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  Light  and  Blue? 
Yet,  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew. 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  Flame, 
Hesperus,  with  the  Host  of  Heaven,  came. 
And  lo!    Creation  widened  on  Man's  view. 

Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 
Within  thy  beams,  O  Sun !  or  who  could  find, 
Whilst  flower  and  leaf  and  insect  stood  revealed, 
That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind  1 
Why  do  we  then  shun  Death  with  anxious  strife? 
If  Light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  Life? 

Joseph)  Blanco  White. 
See  Note  Page  353. 


293 


Nepenthe 

Q  BLEST  unfabled  Incense  Tree, 
That  burns  in  glorious  Araby, 
With  red  scent  chalicing  the  air, 
Till  earth-life  grow  Elysian  there! 

Half  buried  to  her  flaming  breast 
In  this  bright  tree  she  makes  her  nest, 
Hundred-sunned  Phoenix  I  when  she  must 
Crumble  at  length  to  hoary  dust ; 

Her  gorgeous  death-bed,  her  rich  pyre 
Burnt  up  with  aromatic  fire ; 
Her  urn,  sight-high  from  spoiler  men. 
Her  birthplace  when  self-born  again. 

The  mountainless  green  wilds  among. 
Here  ends  she  her  unechoing  song : 
With  amber  tears  and  odorous  sighs 
Mourned  by  the  desert  where  she  dies. 
Gecmrge  Darley. 
See  Note  Page  353. 


294 


Eileen  Aroon 

Tl/THEN,  like  the  early  rose, 

Eileen  aroon! 
Beauty  in  childhood  blows, 

Eileen  aroon ! 
When,  like  a  diadem, 
Buds  blush  around  the  stem. 
Which  is  the  fairest  gem? 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Is  it  the  laughing  eye, 

Eileen  aroon ! 
Is  it  the  timid  sigh, 

Eileen  aroon! 
Is  it  the  tender  tone, 
Soft  as  the  stringed  harp's  moan  ? 
Oh!  it  is  Truth  alone. 

Eileen  aroon! 

When,  like  the  rising  day, 

Eileen  aroon  1 
Love  sends  his  early  ray, 

Eileen  aroon ! 
What  makes  his  dawning  glow 
Changeless  through  joy  or  woe? 
Only  the  constant  know — 

Eileen  aroon ! 


295 


I  know  a  valley  fair, 

Eileen  aroon! 
I  knew  a  cottage  there, 

Eileen  aroon! 
Far  in  that  valley  shade 
I  knew  a  gentle  maid, 
Flower  of  a  hazel  glade, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Who  in  the  song  so  sweet? 

Eileen  aroon ! 
Who  in  the  dance  so  fleet? 

Eileen  aroon ! 
Dear  were  her  charms  to  me, 
Dearer  her  laughter  free, 
Dearest  her  constancy, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Were  she  no  longer  true, 

Eileen  aroon! 
What  should  her  lover  do? 

Eileen  aroon! 
Fly  with  his  broken  chain 
Far  o'er  the  sounding  main, 
Never  to  love  again, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Youth  must  with  time  decay, 

Eileen  aroon ! 
Beauty  must  fade  away, 

Eileen  aroon ! 
Castles  are  sacked  in  war, 
Chieftains  are  scattered  far, 
Truth  is  a  fixed  star, 

Eileen  aroon ! 

Gerald  Griffin. 


296 


And  Then  No  More 

T    SAW  her  once,  one  little  while,  and  then  no  more: 

'Twas  Eden's  light  on  Earth  a  while,  and  then  no  more. 

Amid  the  throng  she  passed  along  the  meadow-floor : 

Spring  seemed  to  smile  on  Earth  awhile,  and  then  no  more; 

But  whence  she  came,  which  way  she  went,  what  garb  she 
wore 

I  noted  not;  I  gazed  a  while,  and  then  no  more! 

I  saw  her  once,  one  little  while,  and  then  no  more: 
'Twas  Paradise  on  Earth  a  while,  and  then  no  more. 
Ah!  what  avail  my  vigils  pale,  my  magic  lore? 
She  shone  before  mine  eyes  awhile,  and  then  no  more. 
The  shallop  of  my  peace  is  wrecked  on  Beauty's  shore. 
Near  Hope's  fair  isle  it  rode  awhile,  and  then  no  more ! 

I  saw  her  once,  one  little  while,  and  then  no  more: 

Earth  looked  like  Heaven  a  little  while,  and  then  no  more. 

Her  presence  thrilled  and  lighted  to  its  inner  core 

My  desert  breast  a  little  while,  and  then  no  more. 

So  may,  perchance,  a  meteor  glance  at  midnight  o*er 

Some  ruined  pile  a  little  while,  and  then  no  more! 

I  saw  her  once,  one  little  while,  and  then  no  more : 

The  earth  was  Peri-land  awhile,  and  then  no  more. 

Oh,  might  I  see  but  once  again,  as  once  before. 

Through   chance   or   wile,    that   shape   awhile,   and   then    no 

more! 
Death  soon  would  heal  my  griefs !    This  heart,  now  sad  and 

sore, 
Would  beat  anew  a  little  while,  and  then  no  more. 

James  Clarence  Mangan. 


297 


Maire  My  Girl 

QVER  the  dim  blue  hills 

Strays  a  wild  river, 
Over   the   dim   blue    hills 
Rests  my  heart  ever. 
Dearer  and  brighter  than 
Jewels  and  pearl, 
Dwells  she  in  beauty  there, 
Maire  my  girl. 

Down  upon  Claris  heath 
Shines  the  soft  berry. 
On  the  brown  harvest  tree 
Droops  the   red  cherry. 
Sweeter  thy  honey  lips. 
Softer  the  curl 
Straying  adown  thy  cheeks, 
Maire   my  girl. 

'Twas  on  an  April  eve 
That  I  first  met  her; 
Many  an  eve  shall  pass 
Ere  I  forget  her. 
Since  my  young  heart  has  been 
Wrapped  in  a  whirl, 
Thinking  and  dreaming  of 
Maire  my  girl. 


298 


She  IS  too  kind  and  fond 

Ever  to  grieve  me, 

She  has  too  pure  a  heart 

E'er  to  deceive  me. 

Was  I  Tyrconnell's  chief 

Or  Desmond's  earl, 

Life  would  be  dark,  wanting 

Maire  my  girl. 

Over  the  dim  blue  hills 
Strays  a  wild  river, 
Over  the  dim  blue  hills 
Rests  my  heart  ever; 
Dearer  and  brighter  than 
Jewels  or  pearl, 
Dwells  she  in  beauty  there, 
Maire  my  girl. 

John  Keegan  Casey. 


299 


Helas! 

'T'O  drift  with  every  passion  till  my  soul 

Is  as  a  stringed  lute  on  which  all  winds  can  play, 
Is  it  for  this  that  I  have  given  away 
Mine  ancient  wisdom  and  austere  control? 
Methinks  my  life  is  a  twice- written  scroll 
Scrawled  over  on  some  boyish  holiday 
With  idle  songs  for  pipe  and  virelay, 
Which  do  but  mar  the  secret  of  the  whole. 

Surely  there  was  a  time  I  might  have  trod 
The  sunlit  heights,  and  from  life's  dissonance 
Struck  one  clear  chord  to  reach  the  ears  of  God : 
Is  that  time  dead  ?     Lo !  with  a  little  rod 
I  did  but  touch  the  honey  of  romance — 
And  must  I  lose  my  soul's  inheritance? 

Oscar  Wilde. 


300 


In  the  Streets  of  Catania 

("The  streets  of  Catania  are  paved  with  blocks  of  the  lava 
of  yEtna") 

A  LL  that  was  beautiful  and  just, 

All  that  was  pure  and  sad 
Went  in  one  little,  moving  plot  of  dust 
The  world  called  bad. 

Came  like  a  highwayman,  and  went, 

One  who  was  bold  and  gay. 

Left  when  his  lightly  loving  mood  was  spent 

Thy  heart  to  pay. 

By-word  of  little  street  and  men, 
Narrower  theirs  the  shame. 
Tread  thou  the  lava  loving  leaves,  and  then 
Turn  whence  it  came. 

yEtna,  all  wonderful,  whose  heart 
Glows  as  thine  throbbing  glows. 
Almond  and  citron  bloom  quivering  at  start, 
Ends  in  pure  snows. 

Roger  Casement. 


301 


The  Doves 

TPHE  house  where  I  was  born, 

Where  I  was  young  and  gay, 
Grows  old  amid  its  corn. 
Amid  its  scented  hay. 

Moan  of  the  cushat  dove. 
In  silence  rich  and  deep; 
The  old  head  I  love 
Nods  to  its  quiet  sleep. 

Where  once  were  nine  and  ten 
Now  two  keep  house  together  ; 
The  doves  moan  and  complain 
All  day  in  the  still  weather. 

What  wind,  bitter  and  great, 
Has  swept  the  country's  face. 
Altered,  made  desolate 
The  heart-remembered  place? 

What  wind,  bitter  and  wild, 
Has  swept  the  towering  trees 
Beneath  whose  shade  a  child 
Long  since  gathered  heartease? 

Under  the  golden  eaves 
The  house  is  still  and  sad. 
As  though  it  grieves  and  grieves 
For  many  a  lass  and  lad. 


302 


The  cushat  doves  complain 
All  day  in  the  still  weather; 
Where  once  were  nine  or  ten 
But  two  keep  house  together. 
Katherine  Tynan. 


303 


Sheep  and  Lambs 

A  LL  in  the  April  evening, 
April  airs  were  abroad; 
The  sheep  with  their  little  lambs 
Passed  me  by  on  the  road. 

The  sheep  with  their  little  lambs 
Passed  me  by  on  the  road; 
All  in  the  April  evening 
I  thought  on  the  Lamb  of  God. 

The  lambs  were  weary  and  crying 
With  a  weak,  human  cry. 
I  thought  on  the  Lamb  of  God 
Going  meekly  to  die. 

Up  in  the  blue,  blue  mountains 
Dewy  pastures  are  sweet; 
Rest  for  the  little  bodies, 
Rest  for  the  little  feet. 

But  for  the  Lamb  of  God, 
Up  on  the  hill-top  green, 
Only  a  cross  of  shame 
Two  stark  crosses  between. 

All  in  the  April  evening, 
April  airs  were  abroad ; 
I  saw  the  sheep  with  their  lambs, 
And  thought  on  the  Lamb  of  God. 
Katherine  Tynan. 


304 


The  Pity  of  Love 

J^  PITY  beyond  all  telling 

Is  hid  in  the  heart  of  love: 
The  folk  who  are  buying  and  selling, 
The  clouds  on  their  journey  above, 
The  cold,  wet  winds  ever  blowing, 
And  the  shadowy  hazel  grove 
Where  mouse-grey  waters  are  flowing 
Threaten  the  head  that  I  love. 

William  Butler  Yeats. 


305 


The  Folly  of  Being  Comforted 

/^NE  that  is  ever  kind  said  yesterday: 

"Your  well  beloved's  hair  has  threads  of  grey, 
And  little  shadows  come  about  her  eyes; 
Time  can  but  make  it  easier  to  be  wise, 
Though  now  it's  hard,  till  trouble  is  at  an  end; 
And  so  be  patient,  be  wise  and  patient,  friend." 
But  heart,  there  is  no  comfort,  not  a  grain; 
Time  can  but  make  her  beauty  over  again, 
Because  of  that  great  nobleness  of  hers; 
The  fire  that  stirs  about  her,  when  she  stirs 
Burns  but  more  clearly.    O  she  had  not  these  ways, 
When  all  the  wild  Summer  was  in  her  gaze. 
O  heart !    O  heart !  if  she'd  but  turn  her  head, 
You'd  know  the  folly  of  being  comforted. 

William  Butler  Yeats. 


306 


Think 

'X'HINK,  the  ragged  turf-boy  urges 

O'er  the  dusty  road  his  asses; 
Think,  on  the  seashore  for  the  loneb'- 
Heron  wings  along  the  sand. 
Think,  in  woodland  under  oak-boughs 
Now  the  streaming  sunbeam  passes : 
And  bethink  thee  thou  art  servant 
To  the  same  all-moving  hand. 

Charles  Weeks. 


307 


Immortality 

TIITE  MUST  pass  like  smoke  or  live  within  the  spirit's  fire; 
For  we  can  no  more  than  smoke  unto  the  flame  return 
If  our  thought  has  changed  to  dream,  our  will  unto  desire, 
As  smoke  we  vanish  though  the  fire  may  burn. 

Lights  of  infinite  pity  star  the  grey  dusk  of  our  days: 
Surely  here  is  soul :  with  it  we  have  eternal  breath : 
In  the  fire  of  love  we  live,  or  pass  by  many  ways, 
By  unnumbered  ways  of  dream  to  death. 

"A.  E." 


308 


A  Farewell 

T  GO  down  from  the  hill  in  gladness,  and  half  with  a  pain  I 

depart, 
Where  the  Mother  with  gentlest  breathing  made  music  on  lip 

and  in  heart; 
For  I  know  that  my  childhood  is  over:  a  call  comes  out  of 

the  vast, 
And  the  love  that  I  had  in  the  old  time,  like  beauty  in  twi- 
'    light,  is  past. 

I  am  fired  by  a  Danaan  whisper  of  battles  afar  in  the  world, 
And  my  thought  is  no  longer  of  peace,   for  the  banners  in 

dream  are  unfurled, 
And  T  pass  from  the  council  of  stars  and  of  hills  to  a  life 

that  is  new: 
And  1  bid  to  you  stars  and  you  mountains  a  tremulous  long 

adieu. 

I  will  come  once  again  as  a  master,  who  played  here  as  a 
child  in  my  dawn; 

I  will  enter  the  heart  of  the  hills  where  the  gods  of  the  old 
world  are  gone. 

And  will  war  like  the  bright  Hound  of  Ulla  with  princes  of 
earth  and  of  sky. 

For  my  dre'am  is  to  conquer  the  heavens  and  battle  for  king- 
ship on  high. 

"A.  E." 


309 


To  Morfydd 

A  VOICE  on  the  winds, 

A  voice  by  the  waters, 

Wanders  and  cries : 

Oh!  what  are  the  winds? 

And  what  are  the  waters? 

Mine  are  your  eyes ! 

Western  the  winds  are. 
And  western  the  waters, 

Where  the  light  lies : 
Oh !  what  are  the  winds  ? 
And  what  are  the  waters? 

Mine  are  your  eyes ! 

Cold,  cold,  grow  the  winds. 
And  wild  grow  the  waters. 

Where  the  sun  dies : 
Oh!  what  are  the  winds? 
And  what  are  the  waters? 

Mine  are  your  eyes ! 

And  down  the  night  winds. 
And  down  the  night  waters. 

The  music  flies : 
Oh !  what  are  the  winds  ? 
And  what  are  the  waters? 
Cold  be  the  winds, 
And  wild  be  the  waters. 

So  mine  be  your  eyes! 
Lionel  Johnson. 


310 


Love  on  the  Mountain 

l^Y  LOVE  comes  down  from  the  mountain 

Through  the  mists  of  dawn; 
I  look,  and  the  star  of  the  morning 
From  the  sky  is  gone. 

My  love  comes  down  from  the  mountain, 
At  dawn,  dewy-sweet; 

Did  you  step  from  the  star  to  the  mountain, 
O  little  white  feet? 

0  whence  came  your  twining  tresses 
And  your  shining  eyes, 

But  out  of  the  gold  of  the  morning 
And   the  blue   of   the   skies? 

The  misty  morning  is  burning 

In  the  sun's  red  fire, 

And  the  heart  in  my  breast  is  burning 

And  lost  in  desire. 

1  follow  you  into  the  valley 
But  no  word  can  I  say; 

To  the  East  or  the  West  I  will  follow 
Till  the  dusk  of  my  day. 

Thomas  Boyd. 


311 


Acceptation 

Tf  STABLISH  in  some  better  way 

My  life,  thou  Godhead!  that  I  may 
Know  it  as  virtue  ranks 
To  scorn  Thy  gifts,  or  give  Thee  thanks. 

For  now  I  feel  Thee  near,  unsought. 
But  why,  when  I  seemed  worth  Thy  thought, 
High-souled,  impatient  for  a  task — 
Why  not  have  called  me  then,  I  ask? 

No  mountings  of  the  spirit  please; 
Thou  dost  accept  our  dregs  and  lees; 
The  wise  are  they  that  feel  Thy  rod. 
And  grief  alone  is  near  to  God. 

John  Eglinton. 


312 


Mad  Song 

¥  HEAR  the  wind  a-blowing, 
I  hear  the  corn  a-growing, 
I  hear  the  Virgin  praying, 
I  hear  what  she  is  saying! 
Hester  Sigerson. 


813 


The  Wings  of  Love 

T   WILL  row  my  boat  on  Muckross  Lake  when  the  grey  of 

the  dove 
Comes  down  at  the  end  of  the  day;  and  a  quiet  like  prayer 
Grows  soft  in  your  eyes,  and  among  your  fluttering  hair 
The  red  of  the  sun  is  mixed  with  the  red  of  your  cheek. 
I  will  row  you,  O  boat  of  my  heart !  till  our  mouths  have  for- 
gotten to  speak 
In  the  silence  of  love,  broken  only  by  trout  that  spring 
And  are  gone,  like  a  fairy's  finger  that  casts  a  ring 
With  the  luck  of  the  world  for  the  hand  that  can  hold  it  fast. 
I  will  rest  on  my  oars,  my  eyes  on  your  eyes,  till  our  thoughts 

have  passed 
From  the  lake  and  the  sky  and  the  rings  of  the  jumping  fish; 
Till  our  ears  are  filled  from  the  reeds  with  a  sudden  swish, 
And  a  sound  like  the  beating  of  flails  in  the  time  of  corn. 
We  shall  hold  our  breath  while  a  wonderful  thing  is  born 
From  the  songs  that  were  chanted  by  bards  in  the  days  gone 

by;  _ 

For  a  wild  white  swan  shall  be  leaving  the  lake  for  the  sky, 
With  the  curve  of  her  neck  stretched  out  in  a  silver  spear. 
Oh!   then  when  the  creak  of  her  wings  shall  have  brought 

her  near. 
We  shall  hear  again  a  swish,  and  a  beating  of  flails. 
And  a  creaking  of  oars,  and  a  sound  like  the  wind  in  sails, 
As  the  mate  of  her  heart  shall  follow  her  into  the  air. 
O  wings  of  my  soul!  we  shall  think  of  Angus  and  Caer, 
And  Etain  and  Midir,  that  were  changed  into  wild  white 
swans 


314 


To  fly  round  the  ring  of  the  heavens,  throiigh  the  dusks  and 

the  dawns, 
Unseen  by  all  but  true  lovers,  till  judgment  day, 
Because  they  had  loved  for  love  only.    O  love !  I  will  say. 
For  a  woman  and  man  with  eternity  ringing  them  round, 
And  the  heavens  above  and  below  them,  a  poor  thing  it  is  to 

be  bound 
To  four  low  walls  that  will  spill  like  a  pedlar's  pack. 
And  a  quilt  that  will  run  into  holes,  and  a  churn  that  will 

dry  and  crack. 
Oh!  better  than  these,  a  dream  in  the  night,  or  our  heart's 

mute  prayer 
That  O'Donoghue,  the  enchanted  man,  should  pass  between 

water  and  air. 
And  say,  I  will  change  them  each  to  a  wild  white  swan, 
Like  the  lovers  Angus  and  Midir,  and  their  loved  ones,  Caer 

and  Etain, 
Because  they  have  loved  for  love  only,  and  have  searched 

through  the  shadows  of  things 
For  the  Heart  of  all  hearts,  through  the  fire  of  love,  and  the 

wine  of  love,  and  the  wings. 

James  H.  Cousins. 


315 


On  a  Poet  Patriot 

XJIS  songs  were  a  little  phrase 

Of  eternal  song, 
Drowned  in  the  harping  of  lays 
More  loud  and  long. 

His  deed  was  a  single  word, 

Called  out  alone 
In  a  night  when  no  echo  stirred 

To  laughter  or  moan. 

But  his  songs  new  souls  shall  thrill, 

The  loud  harps  dumb, 
And  his  deed  the  echoes  fill 

When  the  dawn  is  come. 

Thomas  MacDonagh. 


316 


Wishes  for  My  Son 
Born   on   Saint   Cecilia's   Day,    1912 

^rOW,  my  son,  is  life  for  you, 
And  I  wish  you  joy  of  it,— 
Joy  of  power  in  all  you  do, 
Deeper  passion,  better  wit 
Than  I  had  who  had  enough. 
Quicker  life  and  length  thereof. 
More  of  every  gift  but  love. 

Love  I  have  beyond  all  men, 
Love  that  now  you  share  with  me — 
What  have  I  to  wish  you  then 
But  that  you  be  good  and  free. 
And  that  God  to  you  may  give 
Grace  in  stronger  days  to  live? 

For  I  wish  you  more  than  I 
Ever  knew  of  glorious  deed, 
Though  no  rapture  passed  me  by 
That  an  eager  heart  could  heed, 
Though  I  followed  heights  and  sought 
Things  the  sequel  never  brought. 

Wild  and  perilous  holy  things 
Flaming  with  a  martyr's  blood, 
And  the  joy  that  laughs  and  sings 
Where  a  foe  must  be  withstood, 
Joy  of  headlong  happy  chance 
Leading  on  the  battle  dance. 


317 


But  I  found  no  enemy, 
No  man  in  a  world  of  wrong, 
That  Christ's  word  of  charity 
Did  not  render  clean  and  strong — 
Who  was  I  to  judge  my  kind, 
Blindest  groper  of  the  blind? 

God  to  you  may  give  the  sight 
And  the  clear,  undoubting  strength 
Wars  to  knit  for  single  right, 
Freedom's  war  to  knit  at  length. 
And  to  win  through  wrath  and  strife. 
To  the  sequel  of  my  life. 

But  for  you,  so  small  and  young, 
Born  on  Saint  Cecilia's  Day, 
I  in  more  harmonious  song 
Now  for  nearer  joys  should  pray — 
Simpler  joys:  the  natural  growth 
Of  your  childhood  and  your  youth. 
Courage,  innocence,  and  truth: 

These  for  you,  so  small  and  young, 
In  your  hand  and  heart  and  tongue. 
Thomas  MacDonagh. 


318 


Greeting 

^VER  the  wave-patterned  sea-floor, 

^^  Over  the  long  sunburnt  ridge  of  the  world, 

I  bid  the  winds  seek  you. 

I  bid  them  cry  to  you 

Night  and  morning 

A  name  you  loved  once; 

I  bid  them  bring  to  you 

Dreams,  and  strange  imaginings,  and  sleep. 

Ella  Young. 


319 


The  Sedges 

T  WHISPERED  my  great  sorrow 

To  every  listening  sedge ; 
And  they  bent,  bowed  with  my  sorrow, 
Down  to  the  water*s  edge. 

But  she  stands  and  laughs  lightly 

To  see  me  sorrow  so, 
Like  the  light  winds  that  laughing 

Across  the  water  go. 

If  I  could  tell  the  bright  ones 

That  quiet-hearted  move, 
They  would  bend  down  like  the  sedges 

With  the  sorrow  of  love. 

But  she  stands  laughing  lightly, 
Who  all  my  sorrow  knows, 

Like  the  little  wind  that  laughing 
Across  the  water  blows. 

Seumas  0*Sullivan 


320 


The   Half   Door 

rjARK  eyes,  wonderful,  strange  and  dear  they  shone 

A  moment's  space ; 
And  wandering  under  the  white  stars  I  had  gone 
In  a  strange  place. 

Over  the  half  door  careless,  your  white  hand 

A  moment  gleamed; 
And  I  was  walking  on  some  great  storm-heaped  strand 

Forever  it  seemed. 

I  would  give  all  that  glory  to  see  once  more, 

A  moment's  space, 
Your  eyes  gleam  strange  and  dark  above  the  half  door, 

Your  hand's  white  grace. 

Seumas  O'Sullivan. 


321 


This    Heart    That    Flutters    Near    My    Heart 

'X'HIS  heart  that  flutters  near  my  heart 

My  hope  and  all  my  riches  is, 
Unhappy  when  we  draw  apart 

And  happy  between  kiss  and  kiss; 
My  hope  and  all  my  riches — yes ! — 

And  all  my  happiness. 

For  there,  as  in  some  mossy  nest 

The  wrens  will  divers  treasures  keep, 

I  laid  those  treasures  I  possessed 

Ere  that  mine  eyes  had  learned  to  weep. 

Shall  we  not  be  as  wise  as  they 
Though  love  live  but  a  day? 

James  Joyce. 


323 


/   Hear   an   Army 

T  HEAR  an  army  charging  upon  the  land, 

And  the  thunder   of   horses   plunging,   foam  about  their 
knees : 
Arrogant,  in  black  armour,  behind  them  stand, 
Disdaining  the  reins,  with  fluttering  whips,  the  charioteers. 

They  cry  unto  the  night  their  battle-name: 
I  moan  in  sleep  when  I  hear  afar  their  whirling  laughter. 
They  cleave  the  gloom  of  dreams,  a  blinding  flame. 
Clanging,  clanging  upon  my  heart  as  upon  an  anvil. 

They  come  shaking  in  triumph  their  long,  green  hair: 
They  come  out  of  the  sea  and  run  shouting  by  the  shore. 
My  heart,  have  you  no  wisdom  thus  to  despair? 
My  love,  my  love,  my  love,  why  have  you  left  me  alone? 

James  Joyce. 


323 


To  Death 

T  HAVE  not  gathered  gold ; 

The  fame  that  I  won  perished; 
In  love  I  found  but  sorrow, 

That  withered  my  life. 

Of  wealth  or  of  glory 

I  shall  leave  nothing  behind  me 

(I  think  it,  O  God,  enough!) 

But  my  name  in  the  heart  of  a  child. 
Padraic   Pearse  . 
Translated  by  Thomas  MacDonagh. 


324 


Ideal 

J^AKED  I  saw  thee, 

O  beauty  of  beauty  I 
And  I  blinded  my  eyes 
For  fear  I  should  flinch. 

I  heard  thy  music, 

0  sweetness  of  sweetness  I 
And  I  shut  my  ears 

For  fear  I  should  fail. 

1  kissed  thy  lips 

0  sweetness  of  sweetness! 
And  I  hardened  my  heart 
For  fear  of  my  ruin. 

1  blinded  my  eyes 
And  my  ears  I  shut, 
I  hardened  my  heart 
And  my  love  I  quenched. 

I  turned  my  back 
On  the  dream  I  had  shaped, 
And  to  this  road  before  me 
My  face  I  turned. 

I  set  my  face 

To  the  road  here  before  me, 
To  the  work  that  I  see, 
To  the  death  that  I  shall  meet. 
Padraic  Pearse. 
Translated  by  Thomas  MacDonagh. 

325 


River-Mates 

T'LL  be  an  otter,  and  I'll  let  you  swim 

A  mate  beside  me;  we  will  venture  down 
A  deep,  dark  river,  when  the  sky  above 
Is  shut  of  the  sun;  spoilers  are  we. 
Thick-coated;  no  dog's  tooth  can  bite  at  our  veins, 
With  eyes  and  ears  of  poachers;  deep-earthed  ones 
Turned  hunters;  let  him  slip  past 
The  little  vole;  my  teeth  are  on  an  edge 
For  the  King-fish  of  the  River! 

I  hold  him  up 
The  glittering  salmon  that  smells  of  the  sea; 
I  hold  him  high  and  whistle! 

Now  we  go 
Back  to  our  earths ;  we  will  tear  and  eat 
Sea-smelling  salmon;  you  will  tell  the  cubs 
I  am  the  Booty-bringer,  I  am  the  Lord 
Of  the  River;  the  deep,  dark,  full  and  flowing  River! 

Padraic  Colum. 


326 


The  Betrayal 

Tl^HEN  you  were  weary,  roaming  the  wide  world  over, 

I  gave  my  fickle  heart  to  a  new  lover. 
Now  they  tell  me  that  you  are  lying  dead: 
O  mountains  fall  on  me  and  hide  my  head ! 

When  you  lay  burning  in  the  throes  of  fever, 

He  vowed  me  love  by  the  willow-margined  river: 

Death  smote  you  there — here  was  your  trust  betrayed, 

0  darkness,  cover  me,  I  am  afraid! 

Yea,  in  the  hour  of  your  supremest  trial, 

1  laughed  with  him!    The  shadows  on  the  dial 
Stayed  not,  aghast  at  my  dread  ignorance: 
Nor  man  nor  angel  looked  at  me  askance. 


Under  the  mountains  there  is  peace  abiding^ 
Darkness  shall  be  pavilion  for  my  hiding. 
Tears  shall  blot  out  the  sin  of  broken  faith. 
The  lips  that  falsely  kissed,  shall  kiss  but  Death. 

Alice  Furlong. 


327 


The  Daisies 

¥N  THE  scented  bud  of  the  morning— O, 
When  the  windy  grass  went  rippling 
far, 
I  saw  my  dear  one  walking  slow, 
In  the  field  where  the  daisies  are. 

We  did  not  laugh  and  we  did  not  speak 
As  we  wandered  happily  to  and  fro; 

I  kissed  my  dear  on  either  cheek, 
In  the  bud  of  the  morning — O. 

A  lark  sang  up  from  the  breezy  land, 
A  lark  sang  down  from  a  cloud  afar, 

And  she  and  I  went  hand  in  hand 
In  the  field  where  the  daisies  are. 

James  Stephens. 


328 


The  Goat  Paths 

THHE  crooked  paths  go  every  way 
Upon  the  hill — they  wind  about 
Through  the  heather  in  and  out 
Of  the  quiet  sunniness. 
And  there  the  goats,  day  after  day, 
Stray  in  sunny  quietness, 
Cropping  here  and  cropping  there, 
As  they  pause  and  turn  and  pass, 
Now  a  bit  of  heather  spray, 
Now  a  mouthful  of  the  grass. 

In  the  deeper  sunniness, 

In  the  place  where  nothing  stirs. 

Quietly  in  quietness, 

In  the  quiet  of  the  furze, 

For  a  time  they  come  and  lie 

Staring  on  the  roving  sky. 

If  you  approach  they  run  away. 
They  leap  and  stare,  away  they  bound. 
With  a  sudden  angry  sound, 
To  the  sunny  quietude; 
Crouching  down  where  nothing  stirs 
In  the  silence  of  the  furze, 
Crouching  down  again  to  brood 
In  the  sunny  solitude. 


329 


If  I  were  as  wise  as  they, 
I  would  stray  apart  and  brood, 
I  would  beat  a  hidden  way 
Through  the  quiet  heather  spray 
To  a  sunny  solitude; 

And  should  you  come  I'd  run  away, 
I  would  make  an  angry  sound, 
I  would  stare  and  turn  and  bound 
To  the  deeper  quietude, 
To  the  place  where  nothing  stirs 
In  the  silence  of  the  furze. 

In  that  airy  quietness 
I  would  think  as  long  as  they ; 
Through  the  quiet  sunniness 
I  would  stray  away  to  brood 
By  a  hidden,  beaten  way 
In  the  sunny  solitude, 

I  would  think  until  I  found 
Something  I  can  never  find. 
Something  lying  on  the  ground, 
In  the  bottom  of  my  mind. 

James  Stephens. 


330 


The  Spark 

gECAUSE  I  used  to  shun 

Death  and  the  mouth  of  hell 
And  count  my  battles  won 
If  I  should  see  the  sun 
The  blood  and  smoke  dispel. 

Because  I  used  to  pray 
That  living  I  might  see 
The  dawning  light  of  day 
Set  me  upon  my  way 
And  from  my  fetters  free, 
Because  I  used  to  seek 
Your  answer  to  my  prayer 
And  that  your  soul  should  speak 
For  strengthening  of  the  weak 
To  struggle  with  despair, 

Now  I  have  seen  my  shame 
That  I  should  thus  deny 
My  soul's  divinest  flame. 
Now  shall  I  shout  your  name, 
Now  shall  I  seek  to  die 

By  any  hands  but  these 
In  battle  or  in  flood, 
On  any  lands  or  seas. 
No  more  shall  I  spare  ease. 
No  more  shall  I  spare  blood 

When  I  have  need  to  fight 
For  heaven  or  for  your  heart. 


331 


Against  the  powers  of  light 
Or  darkness  I  shall  smite 
Until  their  might  depart, 

Because  I  know  the  spark 
Of  God  has  no  eclipse, 
Now  Death  and  I  embark 
And  sail  into  the  dark 
With  laughter  on  our  lips. 
Joseph  Plunkett. 


332 


A  Silent  Mouth 

r\    LITTLE  green  leaf  on  the  bough,  you  hear  the  lark  in 

morn. 
You  hear  the  grey  feet  of  the  wind  stir  in  the  shimmering 

corn, 
You  hear,  low  down  in  the  grass, 
The  Singing  Sidhe  as  they  pass, 
Do  you  ever  hear,  O  little  green  flame, 
My  loved  one  calling,  whispering  my  name? 

0  little  green  leaf  on  the  bough,  like  my  lips  you  must  ever 

be  dumb, 
For  a  maiden  may  never  speak  until  love  to  her  heart  says 
"Come." 

A  mouth  in  its  silence  is  sweet 
But  my  heart  cries  loud  when  we  meet, 
And  I  turn  my  head  with  a  bitter  sigh 
When  the  boy  who  has  stolen  my  love,  unheeding,  goes  by. 

1  have  made  my  heart  as  the  stones  in  the  street  for  his  tread, 
I  have  made  my  love  as  the  shadow  that  falls  from  his  dear 

gold  head, 
But  the  stones  with  his  footsteps  ring, 
And  the  shadow  keeps  following. 

And  just  as  the  quiet  shadow  goes  ever  beside  or  before, 
So  must  I  go  silent  and  lonely  and  loveless  for  evermore. 

Cathal  O'Bryne. 


333 


He  Whom  a  Dream  Hath  Possessed 

JJE  WHOM  a  dream  hath  possessed  knoweth  no  more  of 

doubting, 
For  mist  and  the  blowing  of  winds   and   the  mouthing  of 

words  he  scorns ; 
Not  the  sinuous  speech  of  schools  he  hears,  but  a  knightly 

shouting, 
And  never  comes  darkness  down,  yet  he  greeteth  a  million 

morns. 

He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  knoweth  no  more  of  roam- 
ing; 

All  roads  and  the  flowing  of  waves  and  the  speediest  flight 
he  knows. 

But  wherever  his  feet  are  set,  his  soul  is  forever  homing, 

And  going  he  comes,  and  coming  he  heareth  a  call  and  goes. 

He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  knoweth  no  more  of  sorrow, 
At  death  and  the  dropping  of  leaves  and  the  fading  of  suns 

he  smiles. 
For  a  dream  remembers  no  past  and  scorns  the  desire  of  a 

morrow. 
And  a  dream  in  a  sea  of  doom  sets  surely  the  ultimate  isles. 

He   whom    a   dream   hath   possessed   treads   the    impalpable 

marches. 
From  the  dust  of  the  day's  long  road  he  leaps  to  a  laughing 

star,  ^ 

And  the  ruin  of  worlds  that  fall  he  views  from  eternal  arches. 
And  rides  God's  battlefield  in  a  flashing  and  golden  car^ 

Shaemas  O'Sheel. 


334 


The  Wind  Bloweth  Where  It  Listeth 

jyi"  Y  HEART  lies  light  in  my  own  breast 
That  yesterday  in  yours  found  rest. 

Indeed,  beloved,  I  would  stay 
With  you  to-day  as  yesterday; 

But  oh !  the  being  comes  and  goes, 
The  spirit  is  a  wind  that  blows. 

Though  lip  to  lip  no  more  we  press 
Our  spirits  feel  that  tenderness 

That  woke  within  us  here  and  fled 
To  its  own  heaven  overhead. 

It  sits  there  in  a  starry  place. 
With  looks  of  longing  on  its  face 

And  beckons  us  to  mount  and  find 
The  love  that  fled  upon  the  wind. 

Not  the  old  wayward  child  to  see 
But  some  bright-haired  divinity. 

Susan  L.  Mitchell, 


335 


The  Apple-Tree 

J  SAW  the  archangels  in  my  apple-tree  last  night, 

I  saw  them  like  great  birds  in  the  starlight — 
Purple  and  burning  blue,  crimson  and  shining  white. 

And  each  to  each  they  tossed  an  apple  to  and  fro, 
And  once  I  heard  their  laughter  gay  and  low; 
And  yet  I  felt  no  wonder  that  it  should  be  so. 

But  when  the  apple  came  one  time  to  Michael's  lap 

I  heard  him  say:  "The  mysteries  that  enwrap 

The  earth  and  fill  the  heavens  can  be  read  here,  mayhap." 

Then  Gabriel  spoke:  "I  praise  the  deed,  the  hidden  thing." 

"The  beauty  of  the  blossom  of  the  spring 

I  praise,"  cried  Raphael.     Uriel:   "The  wise  leaves  I  sing." 

And  Michael :  "I  will  praise  the  fruit,  perfected,  round. 

Full  of  the  love  of  God,  herein  being  bound 

His  mercies  gathered  from  the  sun  and  rain  and  ground." 

So  sang  they  till  a  small  wind  th/ough  the  branches  stirred, 
And  spoke  of  coming  dawn;  and  at  its  word 
Each  fled  away  to  heaven,  winged  like  a  bird. 

Nancy  Campbell. 


336 


SLAINTHE  f 


Slainthe! 

T  SPEAK  with  a  proud  tongue  of  the  people  who  were 

And  the  people  who  are, 
The  worthy  of  Ardara,  the  Rosses  and  Inishkeel, 
My  kindred — 

The  people  of  the  hills  and  the  dark-haired  passes 
My  neighbours  on  the  lift  of  the  brae. 
In  the  lap  of  the  valley. 

To  them  Slainthe  I 

I  speak  of  the  old  men, 

The  wrinkle-rutted, 

Who  dodder  about  foot-weary. — 

For  their  day  is  as  the  day  that  has  been  and  is  no  more- 

Who  warm  their  feet  by  the  fire, 

And  recall  memories  of  the  times  that  are  gone; 

Who  kneel  in  the  lamplight  and  pray 

For  the  peace  that  has  been  theirs — 

And  who  beat  one  dry-veined  hand  against  another 

Even  in  the  sun— 

For  the  coldness  of  death  is  on  them. 

I  speak  of  the  old  women 

Who  danced  to  yesterday's  fiddle 

And  dance  no   longer. 

They  sit  in  a  quiet  place  and  dream 

And  see  visions 

Of  what  is  to  come. 

Of  their  issue. 

Which  has  blossomed  to  manhood  and  womanhood — 


339 


And  seeing  thus 

They  are  happy 

For  the  day  that  was  leaves  no  regrets, 

And  peace  is  theirs, 

And  perfection. 

I  speak  of  the  strong  men 

Who  shoulder  their  burdens  i^      '.e  hot  day. 

Who  stand  in  the  market  plac^ 

And  bargain  in  loud  voices, 

Showing  their  stock  to  the  world. 

Straight  the  glance  of  their  eyes — • 

Broad-shouldered, 

Supple. 

Under  their  feet  the  holms  blossom. 

The  harvest  yields. 

And  their  path  is  of  prosperity. 

I  speak  of  the  women, 

Strong-hipped,  full-bosomed, 

Who  drive  the  cattle  to  graze  at  dawn. 

Who  milk  the  cows  at  dusk. 

Grace  in  their  homes. 

And  in  the  crowded  ways 

Modest  and  seemly — 

Mother  of  children ! 

I  speak  of  the  children 

Of  the  many  townlands. 

Blossoms  of  the  Bogland, 

Flowers  of  the  Valley, 

Who  know  not  yesterday,  nor  to-morrow. 

And  are  happy. 

The  pride  of  those  who  have  begot  them. 


340 


And  thus  it  is. 

Ever  and  always, 

And  Ardara,  the  Rosses  and  Inishkeel — 

Here,  as  elsewhere, 

The  Weak,  the  Strong,  and  the  Blossoming — 

And  thus  my  kindred. 

To  them  Slainthe,  '     ^- 

Patrick  MacGill. 


341 


NOTES 


1.  Let  Us  Be  Merry  Before  We  Go  (Page  37). 

Properly  the  title  of  this  poem  is  "The  Deserter's  Medita- 
tion." Because  of  its  structure  with  its  remarkable  internal 
rhymes  one  might  be  led  to  believe  that  it  reproduces  a  Gaelic 
form:  the  resemblance  to  the  Great  Rannaigheacht  metre  is 
noticeable.  The  Rannaigheacht  metres,  however,  make  lines 
of  seven  syllables.  Dr.  Hyde's  example  of  verse  in  the  Great 
Rannaigheacht  is  from  a  comic  poem  that  he  translates — 

To  hear  handsome  women  weep 
In  deep  distress  sobbing  sore. 
Or  gangs  of  geese  scream  from  far — 
They  sweeter  are  than  Art's   snore. 

See  a  "Literary  History  of  Ireland."  The  poet  of  "The  De- 
serter's Meditation,"  John  Philpot  Curran,  was  an  Irish- 
speaker  from  childhood,  and  this  poem  of  his  marks  the  first 
departure  in  Anglo-Irish  poetry  from  the  traditional  English 
forms  and  towards  Gaelic  forms.  He  was  the  greatest  of 
Irish  orators,  and  his  defence  of  Peter  Finnerty  is  amongst 
the  high  achievements  in  oratory.  The  fact  that  he  was  the 
father  of  Sarah  Curran,  Robert  Emmet's  sweetheart,  brings 
him  into  Irish  romantic  history. 

2.    The  Coolun  (Page  39). 

It  is  well,  perhaps,  to   distinguish  between  "Coolun"  and 
343 


"Colleen."  Coolun  (Cuil-Fhionn)  means  one  with  long 
flowing  hair.  Applied  to  a  man  the  designation  would  have 
suggested  that  he  was  a  champion  of  Gaeldom  who  wore  his 
hair  in  the  ancient  fashion  forbidden  by  English  statutes. 
Perhaps  it  was  this  that  gave  the  designation  its  romantic 
association.  The  famous  song  that  is  given  here  is  about  a 
girl. 

3.  Cois  na  Tineadh  (Page  46). 

This  title  means  "Beside  the  fire." 

J   4.  Ballad  of  Douglas  Bridge  (Page  50). 

Francis  Carlin  supplies  me  with  this  note.  "Redmond 
O'Hanlon  was  born  about  1623  in  the  County  Armagh  where 
his  father  owned  seven  townlands.  During  the  Cromwellian 
settlement  this  estate  was  taken  over  by  the  English.  Then 
Redmond  and  his  three  brothers  took  to  the  hills  as  "Rap- 
parees."  He  went  to  France,  where  he  was  given  the  title  of 
Count,  which  title  was  credited  to  him  later  in  the  French 
gazettes.  He  returned  to  Ireland  before  1671  and  became 
the  leader  of  the  "Rapparees"  of  Ulster.  Having  refused  to 
bear  witness  against  the  Primate,  Oliver  Plunkett,  one  hun- 
dred pounds  was  offered  for  his  head  by  Ormonde,  the  vice- 
roy of  Ireland.  He  was  slain  while  asleep  by  a  clansman 
who  brought  his  head  to  Downpatrick  Gaol.  The  Receiver's 
Book  in  the  Dublin  Record  Office  contains  the  following  en- 
try, Taid  to  Art  O'Hanlon  as  a  reward  for  killing  Redmond 
O'Hanlon,  a  proclaimed  Rebell  and  Traytor,  as  by  Concorda- 
tion  dated  6th  of  May  1681— One  Hundred  Pounds.'" 

The  nearest  translation  of  "Rapparees"  would  be  "gueril- 
las," and  perhaps  the  best  comparison  would  be  with  the 
"Comitadjis"  of  Turkish  Bulgaria  and  Macedonia.  The  dis- 
banded Irish  armies  formed  the  nucleus  for  these  bands. 
They  levied  toll  on  the  Planters  who  had  taken  over  the 
confiscated  Irish  estates;  they  avenged  some  of  the  wrongs 
inflicted  upon  the  peasantry,  and  they  checked  the  exactions 
of  "the  Bashaws  of  the  west  and  south,"  as  Lecky  calls  the 
landowners  of  the  time.  Unfortunately  there  was  always  a 
pull  from  the  woods  and  hillsides  of  Ireland  towards  the 
camps  of  the  Irish  Brigade  in  France.  See  "The  Irish  Rap- 
parees" and  note  to  it. 

5.  Allulu  mo  Wauleen  (Page  74). 

The  title  might  be  translated,  "Hail  my    little  bag."    "Sau- 

344 


J 


leen"  means  the  "little  heel"  or  end  of  the  bag;  "mo  chardas" 
means  "my  dear  friend" ;  a  "dark  man"  is  a  blind  man.  I  do 
not  know  if  it  has  an  Irish  original,  but  the  number  of  Gaelic 
words  in  it  suggests  that  it  is  a  translation. 

6.  My  Love  Is  Like  the  Sun   (Page  83). 

Burns  re-wrote  some  stanzas  of  this  song  and  so  it  some- 
times appears  in  his  works.  The  reference,  however,  to  the 
Curragh  of  Kildare  stamps  it  as  an  Irish  popular  song. 

7.  Draherin  O  Machree   (Page  91). 

This  title  means  "Dear  Little  Brother  of  My  Heart."  It 
seems  to  date  from  the  time  of  the  Crimean  war. 

8.  The  Boyne  Water  (Page  95). 

This  is  the  oldest  and  most  spirited  version  of  the  famous 
Orange  song  that  celebrates  the  victory  of  the  Williamites 
over  the  Jacobites  at  the  battle  of  the  Boyne. 

9.  The  Shan  Van  Vocht  (Page  98). 

The  title  is  literally  "The  Poor  Old  Woman."  This  was  a 
"secret"  name  for  Ireland,  like  "Roisin  Dubh"  (the  little  Dark 
Rose)  and  Kathleen  ni  Houlahan  (Kathleen  the  daughter  of 
Houlahan).  These  "secret"  names  were  given  partly  to  hide 
what  might  be  thought  a  seditious  element  in  the  utterance, 
and  partly  because  of  the  Gaelic  liking  for  what  is  esoteric 
and  sjmibolic.  The  Shan  Van  Vocht  is  a  peasant  song  made 
at  the  time  when  the  Irish  were  expecting  help  from  revolu- 
tionary France,  in  1798. 

10.  The  Croppy  Boy  (Page  103). 

This  also  is  a  ballad  of  'Ninety  Eight.  At  this  time  the 
native  Irish  wore  their  hair  short  and  the  epithet  "croppies" 
was  contemptuously  applied  to  them. 

11.  Aimirgin's  Invocation   (Page  109). 

Traditionally  this  is  the  earliest  Irish  poem  being  supposed 
to  have  been  spoken  by  Aimirgin,  the  son  of  Mile,  from  the 
deck  of  one  of  the  invading  Milesian  ships.     The  metre  of 

345 


the  original  is  called  Rosg.  Poems  in  this  metre,  Dr.  Hyde 
remarks  (in  "A  Literary  History  of  Ireland"),  depended  for 
their  effect  upon  rapidity  of  utterance  partly,  and  partly 
upon  a  tendency  towards  alliteration.  In  this  particular  utter- 
ance a  remarkable  effect  is  gained  by  the  repetition  of  images 
as  a  sort  of  internal  rhyme. 

12.  St.  Patrick's  Breastplate   (Page  110). 

The  original  of  this  rhapsody  is  also  in  the  Rosg  metre — 
it  is  a  kind  of  rhymed  or  half  rhymed  utterance.  The  lan- 
guage of  the  poem  is,  Dr.  Hyde  says,  very  old ;  it  is  known 
to  have  been  current  in  the  seventh  century  and  it  was  then 
ascribed  to  Saint  Patrick.  It  is  called  the  "Lorica"  and  also 
"The  Deer's  Cry."  According  to  tradition,  St.  Patrick  ut- 
tered it  while  on  his  way  to  Tara,  where  he  was  for  the 
first  time  to  confront  the  power  of  the  Pagan  High-King  of 
Ireland.  Assassins  were  in  wait  for  him  and  his  companions, 
but  as  he  chanted  the  hymn  it  seemed  to  the  hidden  band 
that  a  herd  of  deer  went  by. 

13.  The  Sleep  Song  of  Grainne  over  Dermuid  (Page  114). 

The  original  of  this  beautiful  poem  is  given  in  "Dunaire 
Finn"  (The  Poem  Book  of  Finn)  in  the  Irish  Texts  Society's 
publications.  Grainne,  the  affianced  wife  of  Fionn  MacCum- 
hal,  is  flying  with  Dermuid,  one  of  Fionn's  band.  The  linnet 
twitters,  the  grouse  flies,  the  wild  duck  pushes  out  from  the 
stream — everything  around  signals  to  Grainne  that  pursuers 
are  close.  The  poem  is  wonderfully  dramatic  in  its  blend  of 
affection  and  alarm,  all  set  to  the  soothing  measure  of  a  lul- 
laby. 

14.  The  Lay  of  Prince  Marvan   (Page  118). 

Marvan  the  Hermit  was  the  brother  of  Guaire,  the  King  of 
Connacht.  Once  Guaire  asked  him  why  he  would  not  come 
to  live  in  the  king's  house.  The  hermit's  answer  makes  the 
lay.  Guire  died  in  662.  Scholars  say  that  the  poem  is  of  the 
tenth  century. 

15.  The  Woman  of  Beare  (Page  126). 

In  folk  romance  the  woman  of  Beare  is  one  of  the  four 
oldest  living  creatures  in  the  world.  But  the  woman  whose 
utterance  is  given  here  is  not  the  character  out  of  the  folk 

346 


romance — she  is  a  courtesan  like  Villon's  Helm-maker.     This 
poem,  Kuno  Meyer  says,  is  of  the  tenth  century. 

16.  Cuchullain*s  Lament  over  Fardiad   (Page  129).         ^ 

The  combat  between  Cuchullain  and  Fardiad  is,  like  the 
combat  between  Achilles  and  Hector  in  the  Iliad,  the  culmin- 
ating episode  in  the  Irish  epic  tale.  The  Tain  Bo  Cuiligne. 
It  is  more  dramatic  than  the  combat  between  Achilles  and 
Hector  because  of  the  fact  that  Cuchullain  and  Fardiad  had 
been  devoted  friends.  The  story  of  the  combat  ends  with 
these  words : — 

"That  is  enough  now,  indeed,"  said  Fardiad.  "I 
fall  of  that.  Now  indeed  may  I  say  that  I  am  sickly 
after  thee,  and  not  by  thy  hand  should  I  have 
fallen.  ..."      " 

Cuchullain  ran  towards  him  after  that,  and  clasped 
his  two  arms  about  him  and  lifted  him  with  his  arms 
and  his  armour  and  his  clothes  across  the  ford  north- 
ward, in  order  that  the  slain  should  lie  by  the  ford 
on  the  north,  and  not  by  the  ford  on  the  west  with 
the  men  of  Erin. 

Cuchullain  laid  Fardiad  down  there,  and  a  trance 
and  a  faint  and  a  weakness  fell  then  on  Cuchullain 
over  Fardiad. 

"Good,  O  Cuchullain,"  said  Laeg,  "rise  up  now  for 
the  men  of  Erin  are  coming  upon  us,  and  it  is  not  a 
single  combat  they  will  give  thee  since  Fardiad,  son 
of  Daman,  son  of  Dare,  has  fallen  by  thee." 

"Servant,"  said  he,  "what  avails  me  to  arise  after 
him  that  hath  fallen  by  me?" 

Dr.  Sigerson's  noble  version  of  Cuchullain's  lament  seems 
to  sum  up  all  the  chivalry  and  all  the  brilliancy  of  the  epic 
tale. 

17.    King  Cahal  M6r  of  the  Wine-Red  Hand  (Page  130). 

Properly  the  title  is  "A  vision  of  Connacht  in  the  Thir- 
teenth Century."  The  poem  carries  the  impression  of  a  period 
earlier  than  the  tumultuous  and  destructive  one  that  followed 
the  Norman  invasion.  Cahal  Mor  of  the  Wine  Red  Hand  was 
an  O'Connor  and  was  quite  an  historic  personage;  he  had  a 
romantic  career. 

347 


'      18.    Kincora  (Page  132). 

Brian  Boru  was  High  King  of  Ireland  from  1000  to  1014, 
when  he  was  slain  by  a  Norse  straggler  after  his  victory  at 
Clontarf  ("The  Battle  of  Dublin"  in  the  Norse  saga).  Kin- 
cora was  his  chief  seat — it  was  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Shan- 
non in  Clare.  The  lament  was  made  by  MacLiag,  whom 
Brian  had  made  ord-ollav  or  chief  litterateur  of  Ireland. 
MacLiag  laments  the  death  of  Brian,  his  son  and  his  grand- 
son, all  of  whom  had  perished  on  the  day  of  fatal  victory; 
he  has  to  lament  the  passing  of  the  dynasty  and  the  ruin  of 
what  the  great  king's  victories  and  policies  had  gained — the 
southern  hegemony  of  Ireland.  A  spirited  description  of 
Sigurd's  invasion  and  the  Norse  defeat  is  given  in  the  Saga 
of  Burnt  Njal. 

19.  The  Grave  of  Rury  (Page  134). 

This  is  the  Roderick  O'Connor  of  English  history.  After 
his  defeat  by  the  Normans  the  office  of  the  High  King  was 
allowed  to  lapse  in  accordance  with  the  terms  of  the  treaty 
of  Windsor.  This  king  was  then  "Last  of  Gaelic  monarchs 
of  the  Gael." 

"Ruraidh  O'Conchobhar,  last  king  of  Ireland,  died  and  was 
buried  in  the  monastery  of  St.  Fechin  at  Cong,  where  his 
grave  is  still  shown  in  that  most  beautiful  and  pathetic  of 
Irish  ruins.  All  accounts  agree  in  this,  but  some  have  it  that 
his  remains  were  afterwards  transferred  to  Clonmacnoise  by 
the  Shannon."    Author's  note. 

20.    The  Shadow  House  of  Lugh  (Page  135). 

Lugh  is  the  Celtic  divinity  whose  name  is  most  widely 
known.  In  mythology  he  is  the  Sun  God.  In  the  mytho- 
logical cycle  he  is  the  deliverer  of  the  De  Danaans  from  the 
Fomorian  oppression.  He  is  the  slayer  of  Balor,  the  glance 
of  whose  eye  is  death.  But  Lugh  is  also  kin  to  Balor,  his 
mother  being  Eithlinn,  the  daughter  whom  Balor  had  im- 
mured like  Danae  in  a  tower. 

21.  Killarney  (Page  159). 

These  verse  make  the  epilogue  to  a  long  poem  called 
"Fand"  which  is  based  on  the  stor3'  of  the  love  of  Fand,  the 
Sea-god's  wife,  for  Cuchullain  and  the  jealousy  of  Cuchul- 
lain's  wife,  Emer.  William  Larminie,  the  poet  of  "Fand," 
had  certain  theories  of   English  verse  which  might   form  a 

348 


doctrine  for  the  free  verse  poets  of  to-day.  He  considered 
that  free  verse  might  gain  by  an  association  with  the  Irish 
system  of  assonance.  The  "Epilogue  to  Fand"  is  an  inter- 
esting experiment — the  poet  achieves  beautiful  music  in  it 
through  the  use  of  assonance. 

22.  Clonmacnoise   (Page  163). 

The  monastery  and  school  of  Clonmacnoise  was  founded  by 
St.  Kieran,  the  carpenter's  son,  about  the  year  544.  It  grew 
to  be  the  greatest  of  the  Irish  universities.  "Some  of  the 
most  distinguished  scholars  of  Ireland,  if  not  of  Europe, 
were  educated  at  Clonmacnoise,  including  Alcuin,  the  most 
learned  man  at  the  French  court,  who  remembered  his  Alma 
Mater  so  affectionately  that  he  extracted  from  King  Charles 
of  France  a  gift  of  fifty  shekels  of  silver,  to  which  he  added 
fifty  more  of  his  own,  and  sent  them  to  the  brotherhood  of 
Clonmacnois  as  a  gift."  (Douglas  Hyde,  "A  Literary  History 
of  Ireland.")  Clonmacnoise  contains  a  famous  sculptured 
cross  and  many  sculptured  stones.  It  was  sacked  at  different 
times  during  the  invasions. 

23.  Colum-Cille's  Farewell  to  Ireland  (Page  170). 

The  saint  is  supposed  to  have  made  this  poem  while  in  his 
self-imposed  exile  in  lona.  Scholars  do  not  believe  that  the 
poems  in  Irish  attributed  to  Colum-cille  belong  to  his  period 
— the  first  half  of  the  sixth  century. 

24.  John  O'Dwyer  of  the  Glen  (Page  171). 

There  are  many  versions  and  many  translations  of  this 
famous  poem.  It  laments  the  exile  of  the  native  Irish  fami- 
lies and  also  the  destruction  of  the  Irish  woods.  The  exile 
and  the  destruction  went  together.  The  woods  were  de- 
stroyed, partly  as  a  measure  of  safety  for  the  planters — the 
woods  gave  shelter  to  the  "Rapparees"  and  partly  as  a  quick 
way  of  exploiting  the  confiscated  lands.  It  was  then  that 
the  deforestation  of  Ireland  began. 

25.  A  Farewell  to  Patrick  Sarsfield,  Earl  of  Lucan  (Page  173). 

Sarsfield  was  leader  of  the  Irish  in  the  wars  that  closed  the 
seventeenth  century.  He  is  famous  in  Irish  ^  story  as  the 
defender  of  Limerick;  his  surrender  of  the  city  meant  the 
end  of  organised  Irish  resistance  for  two  hundred  years. 
After  that  Sarsfield  with  most  of  his  army  sailed  for  France, 
where  they  took  service  with  Louis  XIV.    He  was  killed  at 

349 


the  battle  of  Landen  in  1693.  As  he  drew  from  his  bosom  his 
hand  that  was  covered  with  his  heart's  blood  he  said,  "Would 
that  this  were  for  Ireland."  By  the  way,  the  name  Patrick 
or  Padraic  came  into  fashion  amongst  the  Irish,  not  out  of 
veneration  of  the  saint,  but  in  memory  of  Patrick  Sarsfield. 

26.  Fontenoy  (Page  176). 

The  battle  of  Fontenoy  (1745)  has  always  been  regarded 
by  the  Irish  as  a  national  victory.  The  charge  of  the  Irish 
Brigade  flung  the  English  back  as  they  were  on  the  point  of 
putting  the  French  to  the  rout.  The^  Irish  went  into  the 
battle  with  the  cry,  "Remember  Limerick." 

27.  The  Fair  Hills  of  Ireland  (Page  182). 

Donnchad  Ruadh  MacNamara,  a  Munster  poet,  made  this 
poem  about  1730.  The  refrain  in  this  particular  version  has 
nothing  to  do  with  hills.  The  original  is  sung  to  the  noblest 
of  Irish  traditional  airs. 

28.  The  Night  Before  Larry  Was  Stretched   (Page  204). 

Baudelaire,  one  must  believe,  would  have  hailed  this  poem 
as  a  real  Flower  of  Evil — the  Satanic  laughter  is  in  it.  It 
was  written  in  the  Dublin  slang  of  the  eighteenth  century  by 
some  anonymous  Villon.  At  the  time  there  were  many  songs 
celebrating  life  in  the  gaol  and  the  business  of  an  execution. 
The  coffin  was  usually  sent  into  the  condemned  cell  "that  the 
sight  might  suggest  the  immediate  prospect  of  death  and 
excite  corresponding  feelings  of  solemn  reflection  and  prepa- 
ration for  the  awful  event."  The  friends  of  the  condemned 
man  were  allowed  to  be  with  him  before  the  execution,  and 
the  coffin  was  generally  used  as  a  card  table.  There  is  an- 
other poem  comparable  to  this  in  its  harsh  zest  of  life — the 
street  song,  "Johnny,  I  Hardly  Knew  You."  But  unlike  the 
street  song,  "The  Night  Before  Larry  Was  Stretched,"  shows 
a  most  accomplished  artist;  the  unrhymed  line  at  the  end  of 
the  stanza  is  extraordinarily  effective. 

29.  O'Hussey's  Ode  to  the  Maguire   (Page  213). 

This  poem  was  written  by  the  bard  of  the  Maguires, 
Eochadh  O'Hussey,  who  was  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
poets  of  his  time.  Hugh  Maguire,  Lord  of  Fermanagh,  was 
with  Hugh  O'Neill  and  Hugh  O'Donnell  in  the  war  that  came 
at  the  end  of  Elizabeth's  reign.  The  poet  laments^  the  dis- 
aster of  his  Munster  campaign.    Says  Dr.  Hyde  in  his  "Liter- 

350 


ary  History,"  "when  it  is  remembered  that  O'Hussey  com- 
posed this  poem  in  the  most  difficult  and  artificial  of  metres, 
the  Deibhidh,  ...  it  will  be  seen  how  much  Mangan  has 
gained  by  his  free  and  untrammelled  metre,  and  what  tech- 
nical difficulties  fettered  O'Hussey's  art,  and  lent  glory  to  his 
triumph  over  them." 

30.  A   Lament    for   the    Princes   of   Tyrone    and   Tyrconnel 

(Page  216). 

Hugh  O'Neill  (the  Earl  of  Tyrone  of  English  history)  had 
been  the  leader  of  the  most  brilliantly  conducted  war  waged 
by  the  Irish  against  the  English  in  Ireland.  He  was  forced 
to  leave  Ireland  in  1607;  his  flight  meant  the  passing  of  the 
leadership  of  the  Gaelic  nobles  and  the  close  of  an  epoch  of 
Irish  history.  With  O'Neill  went  the  chief  representatives 
of  the  great  Ulster  families.  The  poem  is  addressed  to  the 
Lady  Nuala  O'Donnell  by  the  bard  of  the  O'Donnells,  Mac 
an  Bhaird  or  Ward.  The  bard  is  supposed  to  discover  the 
Lady  Nuala  weeping  alone  over  the  tomb  of  her  brother 
Rory  in  the  Church  of  S.  Pietro  Montorio  on  the  Janiculum. 
He  imagines  the  whole  scene  transferred  to  Ireland  (which 
accounts  for  the  image  of  the  horses'  hooves  trampling  down 
"The  mount  whereon  the  martyr-saint  was  crucified"),  and 
he  tells  her  how  all  Ireland,  and  especially  all  Northern  Ire- 
land, would  join  in  her  grief.  Never  was  the  attachment  of 
the  Irish  to  their  nobles  revealed  more  poignantly  than  in 
this  poem  that  laments  the  passing  of  the  greatest  and  truest 
of  the  Irish  families. 

31.  Lament  for  the  Death  of  Eoghan  Ruadh  O'Neill   (Page 

223). 

Eoghan  Ruadh  O'Neill  (Owen  Roe)  was  the  nephew  of  the 
Hugh  O'Neill  referred  to  in  the  note  above.  He  acquired  a 
great  reputation  while  in  the  Spanish  service  and  he  came 
over  to  Ireland  to  aid  the  Gaelic  and  Anglo-Irish  leaders  who 
had  formed  the  Catholic  Confederation.  He  had  the  loyalty 
of  the  Gaelic  but  not  of  the  Anglo-Irish  party  in  the  war  of 
1641-49.  He  died  as  Oliver  Cromwell  unified  the  English 
command  in  Ireland,  and  it  was  believed  that  he  had  been 
poisoned.  He  is  buried  in  an  island  in  Lough  Oughter  in 
Cavan. 

The  utterance  is  supposed  to  be  made  by  one  of  O'Neill's 
clansmen  who^  is  in  Ormonde's  camp  in  the  south,  and  who 
hears  of  O'Neill's  death  from  a  messenger  who  has  come  into 
the  camp.  "The  Lament  for  the  Death  of  Eoghan  Ruadh 
O'Neill"  was  the  first  ballad  Thomas  Davis  wrote — with  it  he 

351 


initiated  a  movement  in  Irish  verse  that  lasted  for  a  long 
time. 

32.  Dirge  on  the  Death  of  Art  O'Leary  (Page  225). 

This  lament,  with  its  improvisations  and  its  heart-rending 
reminiscences,  is  the  typical  Irish  Caoine.  But  the  sweep  of 
personal  feeling  in  it  puts  it  apart  from  all  the  others.  Art 
O'Leary,  lilge  many  of  the  Irish  gentry  of  the  time,  had  been 
abroad;  he  was  an  officer  in  the  ^Hungarian  service.  He 
married  Eileen  of  the  Raven  Hair,  the  daughter  of  O'Con- 
nell  of  Derrynane,  whose  grandson  was  to  be  Daniel  O'Con- 
nell  the  Liberator.  Her  parents  were  against  the  marriage. 
The  immediate  cause  of  the  tragedy  was  the  winning  by 
O'Leary's  mare  of  a  race.  At  the  time  Irish  Catholics  were 
not  permitted  to  own  a  horse  that  was  worth  more  than  five 
pounds.  The  English  planter  whose  horse  had  been  beaten 
offered  O'Leary  five  pounds  for  his.  He  refused  the  offer. 
Thereupon  he  was  declared  an  outlaw  and  was  afterwards 
shot  through  the  heart.  This  was  in  1773.  The  first  intima- 
tion that  his  wife  received  of  the  tragedy  was  the  arrival  of 
the  mare  without  her  rider. 

33.  Lament   for  Thomas   Davis    (Page  244). 

Thomas  Osborne  Davis  was  one  of  the  leaders  of  the 
Young  Ireland  party.  He  died  just  as  his  work  was  begin- 
ning to  have  an  extraordinary  effect.  Ferguson,  who  had  not 
joined  the  Young  Ireland  party,  but  who  was  in  sympathy 
with  Davis's  ideas,  received  the  news  of  his  death  while  he 
himself  was  ill;  many  poems  were  written  in  memory  of 
Thomas  Davis,  but  Ferguson's  is  the  most  exalted  in  feeling 
as  well  as  the  most  Gaelic  in  structure. 

34.  The  Downfall  of  the  Gael  (Page  261). 

This  poem  was  written  by  the  bard  of  Shane  O'Neill, 
O'Gnive.  He  accompanied  O'Neill  to  London  in  1962.  The 
poem  is  written  in  the  difficult  Deibhidh  metre,  the  dignity 
of  which  is  not  reproduced  in  Ferguson's  translation. 

35.  Lament  for  Banba  (Page  264). 

Banba  is  Ireland  in  the  heroic  aspect,  as  Fodhla  is  Ireland 
in   the   intellectual   and   spiritual   aspect,   as   Eire   is   Ireland 
geographically.    Egan  O'Rahilly  was  one  of  the  Munster  poets  » 
of  the  eighteenth  century.     His  poems  are  published  by  the 
Irish  Texts  Society. 

352 


36.  Dark  Rosaleen  (Page  269). 


Mangan's  version  is  much  greater  than  the  original  poem. 
It  is  supposed  to  be  Hugh  O'Donnell's  address  to  Ireland  at 
a  time  when  the  Irish  chiefs  were  expecting  help  from  Spain 
and  from  the  Pope. 

37.  Roisin  Dubh   (Page  272). 

"The  Little  Dark  Rose^"  This  poem  of  Aubrey  De  Vere's 
was  one  of  a  series  written  in  time  of  catastrophe — during 
the  famine  of  1846-47. 

■     38.  The  Irish  Rapparees  (Page  279). 

See  the  note  on  the  "Ballad  of  Douglas  Bridge."  The  au- 
thor of  "The  Irish  Rapparees"  makes  the  following  note  on  his 
poem :  "When  Limerick  was  surrendered,  and  the  bulk  of  the 
Irish  army  took  service  with  Louis  XIV,  a  multitude  of  the 
old  soldiers  of  the  Boyne,  Aughrim  and  Limerick  preferred 
remaining  in  the  country  at  the  risk  of  fighting  for  their 
daily  bread;  and  with  them  some  gentlemen,  loth  to  part 
from  their  estates  or  their  sweethearts,  among  whom  Red- 
mond O'Hanlon  is,  perhaps,  the  most  memorable.  The  Eng- 
lish army  and  the  English  law  drove  them  by  degrees  to  the 
hills,  where  they  were  long  a  terror  to  the  new  and  old 
'settlers  from  Limerick,  and  a  secret  pride  and  cornfort  to 
the  trampled  peasantry,  who  loved  them  even  for  their  ex- 
cesses.   It  was  all  they  had  left  to  take  pride  in." 

39.  I  Am  Raftery  (Page  291). 

Raftery,  a  Connacht  peasant  poet,  while  at  some  festivity, 
heard  someone  asking  who  he  was.  He  was  then  blind  and 
a  fiddler.  Turning  around  he  made  this  perfect  utterance. 
Raftery  died  in  1835.  His  poems  have  been  collected,  edited 
and  translated  by  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde. 

40.  Night  (Page  293). 

Blanco  White  was  born  in  Seville  of  an  exiled  Irish  fam- 
ily. 

41.  Nepenthe  (Page  294). 

Robert  Bridges  makes  this  note  upon  "Nepenthe":  "The 
Phoenix  personifies  the  earth  life  of  sun-joys,  i.e.,  the  joys 

353 


of  the  sense.  She  is  sprung  of  the  Sun  and  is  killed  by  the 
Sun.  It  is  of  the  essence  of  sun-joys  to  be,  in  tfieir  sphere, 
as  eternal  as  their  cause;  and  their  personification  is  with- 
out ambition  to  transcend  them.  The  Phoenix  is  melancholy 
as  well  as  glad;  the  sun-joys  would  not  be  melancholy  if  they 
did  not  perish  in  the  using:  but  they  are  ever  created  anew. 
Their  inherent  melancholy  would  awaken  ambition  in  the 
spirit  of  man.  In  the  last  stanza  Mountainless  means  Void 
of  ambition/  and  unechoing  means  'awakening  no  spiritual 
echoes.' " 


354 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


A.  E.,  286,  308,  309  FuRLONG,  Thomas,  172 
<Allingham,  William,  90,  151, 

187  Gore-Booth,  Eva,  164 

Anonymous,  69,  72,  74,  77,  79.  Graves,   Alfred    Percival,    63, 

81,   83,  85,   86,  87,   88,   91,   93,  138 

95,  98,  100,  101,  103,  105,  201,  Griffin,  Gerald,  296 

204,  236  GwYNN,  Stephen,  128 


Banim,  John,  284 
Boyd,  Thomas,  137,  311 
Byrne,  William  A.,  167 

Callanan,    Jeremiah    J., 
238 


Hackett,  Francis,  253 
Hull,    Eleanor,    65,    115,    121, 
232 
V      Hyde,  Douglas,  23,  59,  124,  170, 
235,       210,  291 


Campbell,  Joseph,  24,  30,  161    'Ingram,  John  Kelly,  282 
Campbell,  Nancy,  336 
Carbery,  Ethna,  136,  145 
Carlin,  Francis,  51 


Johnson,  Lionel,  277,  310 
Joyce,  James,  322,  323 


Casement,  Roger,  301 
Casey,  John  Keegan,  299 
Cavanagh,  Michael,  27 
Clarke,  Austin,  117 
Colum,  Padraic,  29,  326 
Corkery,  Daniel,  36 
Cousins,  James  H.,  212,  315 
CoK,  Eleanor  Rogers,  251 
CuRRAN,  John  Philpot,  37 

Darley,  George,  294 
M)avis,  Thomas,  181,  224 
Dermody,  Thomas,  200 
de  Vere,  Aubrey,  272,  287 
Duffy,  Charles  Gavan,  280 

Eglinton,  John,  312 

'*1Ferguson,  Sir  Samuel,  40,  43, 
141,  183,  246,  263 
Figgis,  Darrell,  158 
Fox,  George,  192 

Fox,  MOIREEN,  143 

Furlong,  Alice,  143,  155,  327 


Kettle,  Thomas,  248 
KicKHAM,  Charles  Joseph,  191 

Larminie,  William,  160 
Lawless,  Emily,  178,  179,  180 
Ledwidge,  Francis,  38,  149,  162, 

255,  256 
Leslie,  Shane,  165 
Letts,  Winifred,  250 

MacDonagh,  Thomas,  34,  42, 
316,  318 
^  MacGill,  Patrick,  341 
MacManus,  Seumas,  64 
MacNeill,  Professor,  109 
"^AHONY,  Francis  S.,  169 
^^ANGAN,  James  Clarence,  131, 
133,    175,    215,    222,    265,    268, 
271,  297 
Meyer,  Kuno,  111 
MiLLiGAN,  Alice,  274 
Mitchell,  Susan  L.,  335 
Voore,  Thomas,  257,  283,  292 
Mulligan,  Alice,  285 


355 


356  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

SiGERSON,  George,  129 
O'BoLGER,  T.  D.,  122  SiGERSON,  Hester,  313 

O  Bryne,  Cathal,  333  Stephens,  James,  198,  328,  330 

O  Curry,  Eugene,  61  Swift,  Jonathan,  32,  195,  196, 

O  Kelly,  Seumas,  211  197 

O'Neill,  Moira,  189 

0;Sheel,  Shaemas,  334  Todhunter,  John,  241 

O  Sullivan,  Seumas,  148,  156,  Tynan,  Katherine,  303,  304 
254,  320,  321 

Waller,  John  Francis,  57 
Parnell,  Fanny,  276  Walsh,  Edward,  41 

Pearse,  Padraic,  239,  266,  324,  Weeks,  Charles,  307 

325  White,  Joseph  Blanco,  293 

Petrie,  George,  44,  125  Wilde,  Oscar,  300 

Plunkett,  Joseph,  278,  332        Wilson,  Florence  M.,  146 

Wolfe,  Charles,  243 
Rolleston,  T.  W.,  47,  113,  134, 
163  Yeats,    William    Butler,    23 

49,  305,  306 
Shorter,  Dora  Sigerson,  55      Young,  Ella,  319 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


A  Bansha  Peeler  wint  won  night,  201 

Adieu  to  Belashanny,  184 

Ah,  had  you  seen  the  Coolun,  39 

Ah,  where,  Kincora !  is  Brian  the  Great?  132 

A  fragrant  prayer  upon  the  air,  23 

Alas  for  the  voyage,  O  High  King,  170 

All  in  the  April  evening,  304 

All  that  was  beautiful  and  just,  301 

A  pity  beyond  all  telling,  305 

A  plenteous  place  is  Ireland,  182 

As  I  roved  out  on  a  May  morning,  86 

As  I  was  climbing  Ardan  Mor,  162 

A  terrible  and  splendid  trust,  277 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  292 

At  the  Yellow  Bohereen,  125 

A  voice  on  the  winds,  310 

A  woman  had  I  seen,  as  I  rode  by,  157 

Because  I  used  to  shun,  331 
Be  this  the  fate,  212 
Blithe  the  bright  dawn  found  me,  171 
'  Bruadar  and  Smith  and  Glinn,  207 
By  memory  inspired,  105 

Clear  as  air,  the  western  waters,  134 
Come  all  ye  lads  and  lassies,  77 
Come  buy  my  fine  wares,  31 

Dark  eyes,  wonderful,  strange  and  dear,  321 
Did  they  dare,  did  they  dare,  223 
Do  you  remember  that  night  ?  60 
Draw  near  to  the  tables,  236 
Dream-fair,  beside  dream  waters,  135 

V 

Ebbing,  the  wave  of  the  sea,  126 
Establish  in  some  better  way,  312 

Farewell,  O  Patrick  Sarsfield,  173 

Four  sharp  scythes  sweeping — in  concert  keeping,  26 

From  our  hidden  places,  147 

357 


358  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Get  up,  our  Anna  dear,  139 

Good  neighbors,  dear,  be  cautious,  74 

Grief  on  the  death,  it  has  blackened,  239 

Had  I  a  golden  pound  to  spend,  38 
Happy  the  stark  bare  wood,  155 
Have  you  been  at  Carrick  ?  41 
Heaven  help  you  home  to-night,  52 
He  shall  not  hear  the  bittern  cry,  255 
He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed,  334 
His  songs  were  a  little  phrase,  316 
How  hard  is  my  fortune,  237 
How  oft  has  the  Banshee  cried !  257 

I  am  Raferty  the  Poet,  291 

I  arise  to-day,  110 

I  dreamt  last  night  of  you,  John- John,  33 

If  sadly  thinking,  with  spirits  sinking,  37 

I  go  down  from  the  hill  in  gladness,  309 

I  grieve  when  I  think  on  the  dear  happy  days,  91 

I  have  not  gathered  gold,  324 

I  hear  an  army  charging,  323 

J  heard  the  Poor  Old  Woman  say,  256 

I  hear  the  wind  a-blowing,  313 

I  invoke  the  land  of  Ireland,  109 

I  lie  down  with  God,  65 

I  know  my  love  by  his  way  of  walking,  79 

I  know  where  I'm  going,  87 

I'll  be  an  otter,  326 

I  met  the  Love-Talker  one  eve,  144 

In  a  quiet  water'd  land,  163 

In  Cavan  of  little  lakes,  285 

In  the  scented  bud  of  the  morning,  328 

In  the  sleepy  forest  where  the  bluebells,  116 

In  the  youth  of  summer,  161 

I  rise  in  the  dawn,  and  I  kneel  and  blow,  23 

I  saw  her  once,  one  little  while,  297 

I  saw  the  archangels,  336 

I  speak  with  a  proud  tongue,  339 

I  speak  your  name — a  magic  thing,  251 

Is  there  one  desires  to  hear,  159 

It  was  by  yonder  thorn  I  saw,  142 

It  was  early,  early  in  the  Spring,  103 

I  walked  entranced,  130 

I  walked  through  Ballinderry,  244 

I  was  milking  in  the  meadow,  143 

I  whispered  my  great  sorrow,  320 

I  will  row  my  boat  on  Muckross  Lake,  314 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  359 

July  the  first,  of  a  morning  clear,  95 

Let  me  thy  properties,  196 

Like  a  sleeping  swine  upon  the  skyline,  165 

Long  they  pine  in  weary  woe,  267 

Many  are  praised  and  some  are  fair,  180 

May  a  messenger  come  from,  211 

May-day!  delightful  day!  112 

Mellow  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  beginning,  57 

My  closest  and  dearest!  225 

My  grief !  that  they  have  laid  you,  249 

My  heart  is  in  woe,  261 

My  heart  lies  light,  335 

My  love  comes  down  from  the  mountain,  311 

My  name  is  Nell,  right  candid  I  tell,  72 

My  sorrow  that  I  am  not  by,  156 

Mysterious  Night!     When  our  first  parent  knew,  293 

Naked  I  saw  thee,  325 
Not  a  drum  was  heard,  242 
Now,  my  son,  is  life  for  you,  317 
"T«Jow  welcome,  welcome,  baby-boy,  <84 

O  blest  unfabled  Incense  Tree,  294 

Oh,  bad  the  march,  the  weary  march,  176 

Oh,  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  my  joy,  89 

Oh,  Paddy  dear !  and  did  you  hear,  100 

Oh,  the  French  are  on  the  say,  98 

*'Oh,  then  tell  me,  Shawn  O'Farrall,"  101 

Oh,  were  I  at  the  moss-house,  88 

Old  lame  Bridget  doesn't  hear,  149 

O,  little  green  leaf  on  the  bough,  333 

O  my  dark  Rosaleen,  269 

O  my  land !  O  my  love !  264 

Once  I  was  at  a  nobleman's  wedding,  85 

On  Douglas  bridge  I  met  a  man,  50 

One  that  is  ever  kind,  306 

On  rainy  days  alone  I  dine,  195 

On  the  deck  of  Patrick  Lynch's  boat,  192 

O  to  be  blind,  30 

Over  here  in  England  I'm  helpin',  188 

Over  the  dim  blue  hills,  298 

Over  the  wave-patterned  sea-floor,  319 

O  who  are  thou  with  the  queenly  brow,  272 

O  woman  of  the  piercing  wail,  216 


360  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

Play  was  each,  pleasure  each,  129 

Pure  white  the  shields  their  arms  upbear,  138 

Put  your  head,  darling,  darling,  darling,  43 

Righ  Shemus  he  has  gone  to  France,  279 
Right  rigorous,  and  so  forth,  199 
Ringleted  youth  of  my  love,  58 

See,  though  the  oil  be  low,  286 
Shall  mine  eyes  behold  thy  glory,  275 
She  casts  a  spell,  oh,  she  casts  a  spell,  123 
She  lived  beside  the  Anner,  190 
Should  any  enquire  about  Eirinn,  93 
Sleep  a  little,  a  little  little,  114 
Sleep,  gray  brother  of  death,  24 
So  endlessly  the  gray-lipped  sea,  253 
Softly  now  the  burn  is  rushing,  64 

Tears  will  betray  all  pride,  247 

That  angel  whose  charge  was  Eire,  287 

The  choirs  of  heaven  are  tokened,  122 

The  crooked  paths  go  every  way,  329 

The  grand  road  from  the  mountain  goes,  164 

The  green-hunters  went  ridin',  146 

The  house  where  I  was  born,  302 

The  lambs  on  the  green  hills  stood  gazing,  81 

The  lanky  hank  of  a  she,  198 

The  mess-tent  is  full,  181 

The  night  before  Larry  was  stretched,  204 

The  old  priest,  Peter  Gilligan,  48 

The  purple  heather  is  the  cloak,  166 

There  beams  no  light  from  thy  hall,  273 

There  is  a  sheeling  hidden  in  the  wood,  118 

There's  a  colleen  fair  as  May,  44 

There's  a  glade  in  Aghadoe,  240 

The  stars  stand  up  in  the  air,  42 

The  sun  of  Ivera,  233 

The  winter  is  past,  83 

The  world  hath  conquered,  266 

They  had  a  tale  on  which  to  gloat,  35 

They  have  slain  you,  Sean  MacDermott,  254 

Think,  the  ragged  turf-boy  urges,  307 

This  heart  that  flutters  near  my  heart,  322 

This  heritage  to  the  race  of  kings,  278 

Thro*  grief  and  thro'  danger  thy  smile,  283 

To  drift  with  every  passion,  300 

To  meath  of  the  pastures,  28 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  361 

Up  the  airy  mountain,  150 

We  must  pass  like  smoke  or  live,  308 

When  all  were  dreaming  but  Pastheen  Power,  63 

When  like  the  early  rose,  295 

When  you  were  weary,  roaming,  327 

Where  glows  the  Irish  hearth  with  peat,  46 

Where  is  my  chief,  my  master,  213 

While  going  the  road  to  sweet  Athy,  69 

With  a  whirl  of  thoughts  oppressed,  197 

With  deep  affection  and  recollection,  168 

Who  fears  to  speak  of  ninety-eight,  281 

Who  rideth  through  the  driving  rain,  137 

Your  sky  is  a  hard  and  dazzling  blue,  179 


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